Cora's Journey
by robspace54
Summary: Cora Levinson, 19 years-old, is an American girl from the Midwest. How did she go from being merely an American heiress to the future Countess of Grantham?
1. Chapter 1

Cora's Journey

by robspace54

**_Downton Abbey_, and its characters, people, and situations are owned by Carnival Films and Masterpiece Theater. The following story is for purely entertainment purposes.**

Chapter 1 – June 1887 - Cincinnati

"What do you mean you let her go downtown?" Isidore Levinson whirled onto this wife and shouted as he could tell his wife was ignoring him since she continued reading. "I'm speaking to you! Martha, answer me!" In frustration, he half threw his Ibold cigar at the ashtray and missed, scattering sparks and ash across the mahogany table. "I'd just as soon she stay here in Clifton where she belongs!"

His wife Martha lowered her book. "Oh Izzie, she's with cousin Tillie. She's perfectly fine. The girls are having an outing." She went back to reading. "And pick up that cigar! How many tables have you ruined in the house?"

He tossed down his copy of the Cincinnati Commercial Gazette in a huff and jumped to his feet, all five foot two inches of him and marched to his wife's side.

She sat in the bay window overlooking the rear garden, filled with geraniums and roses, her overstuffed chair turned to face the glass.

Isidore glared at his younger and shapely wife and glared. "Martha! Tell me where she's gone! And you know we can buy as many new tables as we need!" His voice dropped. "But we only have one daughter."

Martha sighed and put her book down. She considered how she should approach this answer. Should she tell the truth or embellish the facts a little? "They're out in the surrey. Janine is with them of course," she added, naming their daughter's chaperone and nurse. "They're in good hands."

"Why must you deflect every question I ask? Just answer me woman!"

Martha stood up, her two-inch heels putting her five foot-seven frame seven inches higher than her husband's head. She bent her neck and kissed the crown of his head. "Oh Izzie, let the girl explore a little. She's almost nineteen." She took his hand. "And nearly her birthday! And she so wanted to see a game." She walked to a floral arrangement and started toying with it.

"A _game_? My God, Martha! The streets downtown are filled with people, carts, and horses! I had to go to City Hall the other day and the streets were packed going to League Park. You know they play ball at this time of day!"

Martha Levinson looked over the top of the flowers reproachfully. "Now how would I know what time the baseball games are? I don't go to them, dear. You do."

Her husband harrumphed a bit. "Well there's drinking on every street corner. Two young girls on their own? Half the riverboat men congregate there!"

She cut him off. "Janine Bauer is no shrinking violet and Jim does drive carefully. I trust those two to keep the girls out of harm." She primly sat back on her chair, ankles neatly together, with back and head erect and facing him as she knew that facing him in this way she could stare him down.

This time her soft words would not slow his anger. "The whole area along Findlay and Western Avenues is crawling with toughs and drunks and there's a saloon at every other doorway! And the smoking, the crush of people, the beer swigging brutes! That's where the Irish and The Germans tend to mix it up, don't you know? And when the riverboat crowd come up there…"

"And you don't smoke or drink beer, Izzy?" Saying this Martha knew he'd fly off the handle once more, but now his ire would be more directed at her, and not their daughter.

True to form, Isidore rose to her expectations with bluster, his own form of logic, and a far reaching address on how the entire fabric of society, especially in Hamilton County, Ohio was falling to wrack and ruin.

Martha let her husband rattle on for a while, then returned to her book, a rather thick volume bound in red leather. When she thought it safe to interrupt, after some of his vitriol had faded, she spoke. "Dear. It's fine. She'll be quite all right. Let her have some fun."

"Fun? Down in that crush of people? She should be home studying the piano! Why did I buy the damn thing if she'll not play it?" He turned to look at the grand piano in the library and walked to it. He raised the cover and stroked the ivory keys.

"How I wanted to be able to play this instrument! As a boy, I'd stand outside saloons and gaze in to see the piano player and to hear the music. But I could never afford the time or the money! Now here I am, able to buy a hundred pianos, and still don't know how to play!" he slammed down the cover. He had vacillated for weeks over with one to buy. Should it be the Krell, the Starr, or the Church, or have a Steinway shipped from New York? Finally after striking a deal to have a special piano made for the girl by Steinway, it was installed in the music room, after a lengthy delivery process.

Martha pursed her lips and frowned. "Dear, don't curse. It sounds…"

"Every day? Common?" he laughed. "If you could hear all of us when the Merchant's Club gathers, then you'd hear real swearing! That Gamble, he can throw off words like that like a sailor, and Harper and Goode aren't any slouches either! And Dr. Meyer, now he's a real curser! Well, Martha Braun Levinson, I _am_ _every day_. Common. Grew up on the street! The streets of Philadelphia were a tough school!"

Martha sighed as she had heard this story at least a million times. "I know dear. How you delivered papers and hauled coal…" she waved her hand. "Don't go on. I know it all by heart."

"When my parents and sisters all died of the cholera do you think I had any chance?" He beat his chest, clothed in a fine suit with a gold watch fob stretched across his substantial stomach. "Do you? None! Not a one!"

Isidore felt his face start to flush and heat as he rose to the occasion. "They said I'd never amount to anything at that orphanage! Well, I showed them! I own the second largest chain of dry-goods stores in the city, second only to Mabley and Carew, and I'm raking in profits!" He stopped as he saw his wife hold up her hand, a well-practiced move on her part.

"Isidore, dear," Martha stood and glided over to him took his hand gently. "Yes. I know. Why don't you have a tonic water and go lie down in the gazebo? The breeze is very nice this afternoon. You should go rest before dinner." She said this soothingly and she saw him relax. "Have cook fix you some with ice."

Isidore felt the tension glide from his body as he listened to Martha. Yes, she was right. No need to be so disturbed. "You may be right." He ran his hands along the piano, knowing that for all of his fixation with music, there was not a musical bone in his body. Neither song nor notes ever came from his mouth or fingers.

His father, now long dead, used to drag him to Temple and praise the cantor. "Now, Isidore," he'd whisper to him, "Doesn't Myron Gelbfliesch sound wonderful?"

The nine year old Isidore would roll his eyes. "No. Hurts my ears."

A comment like that would often get his ears boxed and did that time too. He'd not been inside a temple in decades, although he did contribute to Rabbi Wise's Temple downtown.

Martha gazed at Isidore, an extremely self-made man, who looked unremarkable, until you got to know the keen mind behind the plain exterior. She did love him, although had learned to carefully temper his attacks with a mixture of sweet politeness and all-out battle.

She recalled their many years of tears on her part and tirades on his, until they had reached a balance. Oh the balance shifted from time to time, but over the last ten years she had held sway. Isidore had a heart of gold, in spite of his tough life, and the many things he bestowed on her and their daughter was breath taking. Plus he did contribute handsomely to many charities from his generous heart.

"Of course, dear." He picked up and his paper and went into the kitchen where she heard him speak very politely to the cook, Mrs. Potter.

Martha watched as her beloved husband left the room and smiled at his retreating back. She drummed fingers on the chair cushion until he disappeared and only then did she let out a sigh. If Izzy knew what she was planning his tirade would go on until midnight.

She turned back to her book 'Burkes Peerage & Baronetage' the cover said in gilt letters. She looked at the bookmarked page and continued to read; nodding ever so slightly at the fount of information it held.

"Yes," she murmured. "Yes. This could work. It could work very well indeed. I'll show them!"

**Notes:**

**Most of the names mentioned in this chapter are icons of Cincinnati history in business and the community.**

**Cincinnati Commercial Gazette – Published from 1883 to 1896, one of the many newspapers available in the city both in English and German.**

**Ibold Cigar Company – Founded in Cincinnati (1884) by Michael Ibold**

**Clifton – A community that overlooks both the Ohio River valley and downtown Cincinnati.**

**Cincinnati, Ohio – Founded 1788 by John Cleves Symmes and Colonel Robert Patterson; originally named Losantiville by John Filson. The city was built on the flat ground at the northernmost extent of the Ohio River, being bordered by the hills overlooking the river. The city is purported to have 'seven hills' just like Rome, Italy. In 1790 the name was changed to _Cincinnati_ by Arthur St. Clair first Governor of the Northwest Territories to honor the Society of the Cincinnati. The society was formed in 1783, by a group of General Washington's officers; named for _Cincinnatus_.**

**Lucius Quinctius Cincinnatus - A Roman citizen soldier who saved Rome. He left his farm, raised an army and saved Rome from an invasion by the Aequi and the Volscians. Upon his victory he immediately, in spite of the calls of the people and Senate to be Caesar, resigned his generalship and returned to plowing his fields. This heroic action, both on and off the field of battle showed Cincinnatus as a great patriot who did not seek personal gain from saving the city.**

**William Proctor and James Gamble – Co-founder of a company named Proctor & Gamble which was founded in 1837. Since Cincinnati was a transportation center of canals, the Ohio River and railroads, it became a slaughtering center for livestock. Therefore there was plenty of tallow available for making soap and candles.**

**Dwight Baldwin – Founded a string of piano stores in 1857 and later started building his own pianos. Krell, Starr, and Church were all contemporary piano makers in the 1880s.**

**Rabbi Isaac Mayer Wise – One of the founders of Reformed Judaism in North America in Cincinnati.**

**Mabley and Carew – A large 'department' store for clothing, shoes, etc. founded in 1877. One of the first commercial companies to incorporate many stores into one and to use full-page ads in the newspapers.**

**Baseball – Cincinnati is home of the oldest professional baseball team, The Cincinnati Reds (originally named Cincinnati Red Stockings) who started playing for pay in 1869.**

**Findlay and Western Avenues – A street intersection where a baseball field – the League Park stood. The baseball park changed names several times, becoming Crosley Field. The Reds played on that site from 1882 to 1970.**

**Findlay Market – A city market started in 1852 which exists to this day.**

**Riverboats – Before railroads, the lifeblood of the Midwest was the steam powered riverboat, either stern-wheeler or side-wheeler. Samuel Clemens (aka Mark Twain) was a riverboat pilot on the Ohio and Mississippi Rivers for a time.**


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2 – July 1887 - London

"Violet?"

"Yes dear?" she answered her husband as she fanned herself in the London heat that enveloped Grantham House like an oven.

"We need to talk."

"About what, Richard?"

He crossed the sitting room and sat on the sofa at her side. "I need your advice." He took her hands in his.

Lady Violet, the Duchess of Grantham, born Violet Bedford, looked up at her husband of many years. This must be serious. You are asking me for advice?"

Lord Grantham pressed her hands with his. "You may find it hard to believe, but I don't always have all the answers."

"Really? And I thought all men, especially husbands, are the absolute fount of knowledge and wisdom!"

Lord Grantham knew this would be very hard to bring up. "I received a call from my man Hardesty."

Hardesty was the banker who handled their accounts. "Oh," Violet said her voice dropping.

"Yes, oh."

"Well don't just hold me in suspense like a tale in a penny dreadful!"

Richard weighed his words carefully. "You do remember that party you held a month back?"

"Of course, I do. Still the talk of the circuit. The food was so divine and the flowers were so lovely, weren't they? I'm still receiving notes from our friends," she sniffed, "at least from our real friends. So many people have forgotten common courtesy. Must be the European influence. We hold a party and they can't even send a note of thanks!" she sniffed. "They'll see if we invite them next time."

Richard dropped her hands, walked to the door, closed it and returned standing in front of her. "I don't want to trouble you with this."

"Well what is it man? Good God. It can't be the end of the world, can it? Is it Doomsday for the House of Grantham?"

He sighed. "You mentioned flowers."

"Is this about the flowers? If it is I can have different ones for our next party."

"Violet! It's not about what sorts of flowers!"

"Richard," she said with steel in her voice, "please _do not_ shout. It's unbecoming. One would think you were an Italian, like that dreadful woman, Angelina Philogio, that your friend Brooks brought down to the Abbey with him last year. I could not tell you how violently excited the woman seemed all the time. But of course, since you and Brooks spent the entire week fishing and he ignored the girl other than at dinner it was most awkward. A pretty little thing but when she grew angry… well, you tell Brooks not to bring her again."

"Violet? Why do you think Brooks has been seeing that girl?"

"Well it can't be because of her temperament. Lovely thing and the lady's maid I lent her told my personal maid that the girl was incredibly beautiful under all those garments. Perhaps your friend has been tempted by young flesh?" She sniffed. "Put all the women at table totally in our places, those flashing eyes and teeth, glowing skin, and that tight dress - wonder she could fit in it! And the diamonds she was wearing! There must have been a fortune splayed out across her bust like that." She paused and looked at Richard closely. "You were looking at the diamonds, along with all the other men?" Another sniff came out. "It was a rather low neckline."

"Violet let me assure you that…"

"For if it was the diamonds that's one thing, but if it's the other…" she patted her nose with a handkerchief. "I hope it's not that."

Richard fell onto one knee and took her hands. "Violet, it's not about flowers or the Italian woman or any of that."

"Well then what is it Richard? You've been dithering to and fro in this entire conversation!"

Richard knew better than to correct his wife. He pressed his lips together. "Violet it is about diamonds and the cost of flowers, in a sort of way."

"Oh?"

"Why do you think my friend Brooks has taken up with her – Angelina Philogio?"

"Not the diamonds, then?"

"What the diamonds represent. Miss Philogio's father has made a fortune in the shipping business. He owns a good percentage of the cargo vessels in the Mediterranean."

"Oh? So the girl is _not_ important? Seems a waste to me – all that glorious and flawless skin. Like silk the maid said."

Richard held his hands up to Heaven for strength. "Violet! Phillip Brooks-Hill is nearly destitute!"

"Oh, pish."

Richard looked very hard at his wife of many years.

"You're serious?"

"Yes. Very. He hit me up for a loan, you know. Played the _old friend_ card."

"Did you give it to him? How much did he want?"

"He wanted fifty."

"Fifty?"

"Thousand."

"My God! Fifty thousand? And the bank said _no_? He must be desperate. Did you do it?"

Richard looked very hard at his wife of twenty five years. She was a dear and good wife plus a wonderful hostess. She set a fantastic table and kept the staff hopping and in line. But as for money matters, dear Violet knew nothing. "No."

"Well why not? He's your friend, isn't he? You were at school together and he is a good gun isn't he?"

"Violet! I don't have it!"

"Oh don't be daft!"

"No, I'm not. With the new Land Tax and with all that cheap American wheat flooding into the market…" his voice fell. "I shall have to take another loan."

"A loan so you can help out Brooks, you mean?"

"No, Violet! A loan for us! It pains me to do it."

"Is it as bad as that? Another loan?" She chewed on a knuckle. "How many does that make?"

"Hardesty says we might not be far behind poor old Brooks."

"Richard! You _are_ joking?"

Richard took her hand. "I wish I were old girl. I wish I were."

"But what shall we do?"

He cleared his throat. "I was talking to Brooks you see when I got the idea."

"Oh? What's that? Are you going wife hunting in Italy perhaps? I daresay you'd have a bit of bother getting rid of the old one!" Violet's voice had grown quite shrill on the last sentence.

"Brooks was in Paris when he met the girl. She was there with her mama and maid at the House of Worth, buying dresses. One of Brook's friends is in business with Worth importing the silk he uses."

"Worth? Of course I know the man. Been a time since I treated myself to a gown by Worth."

"He says that Paris is absolutely swimming with all sorts of women; young women."

Violet's voice took on a sarcastic tone. "Has Brooks been living in a monastery and has just noticed that Paris has always had women?"

"No, dear. But lots of the women there were being fitted by David Worth were American. American women with money – and lots of it. _Lots_ of _lovely_ dollars, he said." Richard gleamed at Violet as he said the last.

There was a tap on the door and Robert, their twenty-two-year-old son, stuck his head around the corner. "Mama? Papa? Sorry to interrupt. Just wanted to get a book."

Violet's eyes swung from her son to her husband. "Oh. Yes. I see," she said softly. "I see clearly. How very cunning."

**Notes:**

**Penny dreadful – Inexpensive paper story books in the UK, which generally told serial stories of lurid tales of adventure, love, and sacrifice. Some stories were played out over more than 200 issues.**

**Charles Frederick Worth – An English dressmaker and designer living in Paris clothed most of the landed and rich across Northern Europe and North America. Known as the father of "Haute Couture" High Culture – he defined and influenced female dressing for decades. He dressed nobility, celebrity, royalty, and the rich. American women were favorites in the 1880s and 1890s as they had plenty of money to spend, and did. His styles combined both classic and innovative works and used brocade, lace, metallic threads and silk to advantage. The House of Worth exists to this day.**


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3 – Two Months Earlier - Cincinnati

Martha Levinson looked to the other end of the sofa and watched tears run down the smooth cheeks of Mrs. Matilda Baker, her sister, who had arrived at Easter for a visit, and who had now stretched a short visit well beyond the definition of _short_.

"It has just been horrible, Martha," Mattie said and the tears increased even more.

Martha put her hand on her sister's. "I knew something wasn't quite right."

Mattie's tears increased as she went on with the story. "He seemed like such a nice boy. Even Tillie thought so." Tillie was Martha's eighteen year-old niece, who had come along to Cincinnati while her father stayed back East running his wheat export business.

"Oh dear. Oh dear. Shall I have something brought in for you?" Martha rose to call for Mrs. Potter. "A little brandy? Or some wine?"

Mattie wiped her nose. "Sister dear, you live not five miles from the Kentucky border and you offer me brandy? Surely Izzy must have some bourbon in the house."

"Oh. It's that bad then."

Her sister nodded violently and Martha could see the lines of strain and worry about her eyes. "You have no idea," she blew the words out shakily. "Her father doesn't know."

"You didn't tell him?"

"You know how Frank can be! If he ever found out… I'm afraid he'd have the man shot - no worse - he'd do it himself!"

Martha went to the sideboard, drew out the bottle and poured out two tumblers two inches deep of the dark brown fluid. She took the glasses back to the sitting room, knowing she'd have to wash the glasses herself so as not to scandalize the cook and the kitchen maid.

"Here," she held it out to her older and only sister. "Water?"

Mattie took the glass and stared into the depths. "No." She sipped at the glass and made a face. "Strong."

Martha nodded. "This is not just any old blended whiskey, sis, this is the real thing, real bourbon. They claim its pure spring water, filtered, aged in oak or so my husband claims."

He sister took another sip. "Well," she gulped and fanned her face. "I wish I'd had some of this when everything happened."

Martha carefully put her glass on the end table and leaned forward, taking her sister's hand. "Tell me everything."

Mattie brushed a strand of brunette hair off her cheek and started the story.

Martha listened to her sister describe what she thought would be a tale of broken hearts, jealousy, and miss-favor. She was mostly right, at least as far as broken hearts went.

There was a boy, name unspoken, who had been 'inquiring after' Miss Tilly, given name Amelia Matilda Baker, who had turned eighteen last fall. Martha nodded as her sister reminisced how they had both been expecting at the same time. Martha smiled and encouraged her sister to get to the heart of the story.

The boy, or young man, had some funny ideas. He came from a good New York family, or so Mattie claimed, but ran with a fast crowd. Why the boy even smoked, which both Martha and Mattie found shocking, even though he was twenty-one.

So it seemed that Tilly, who was not very bright at times, had run off with the boy and his friends to a race course. Somehow on the way back, the two carriages the crowd were using had been separated in a rainstorm and Tilly and the boy were stranded when the horse went lame.

Martha held her sister's hand tightly as the shocking details were revealed as the level of bourbon in the glasses fell steadily.

"And then," her sister gulped. "I noticed that Tilly wasn't feeling very well after. And that went on for a few weeks. Could not eat a bite without getting sick. Finally I called the doctor – a lady doctor."

"Yes, I have heard of them. There are one or two women doctors in the city right now."

Mattie drank the rest of her whiskey and looked away.

Martha held her sister's hand as the awful truth was revealed to her.

"Luckily," Mattie finished, "three weeks later she got the influenza and lost it."

"God!" Martha swept Mattie into her arms and two women sobbed together.

"Yes," wept the aggrieved mother. "I don't think that Tillie really quite knew what had happened, not before, during, or after. Has no clue to this day." Her tears had dried and now her pale blue eyes held only a weary look. "You know that Tillie always had trouble with her lessons. We finally gave that up two years ago. She's not very bright."

Martha's voice rose. "But that's no excuse for what happened! To take advantage of the poor thing! That boy should be horse whipped!"

"She does remember a lot of whiskey, though. Still thinks that is what made her so sick!"

Martha stood. "We have to do something!"

Her sister squeezed her hand tightly. "Martha," she whispered. "My Frank does not know! He must never know and you must not tell Isidore! I know what your husband might be capable of!"

Martha turned her head and looked to the window where her daughter and niece were swinging back and forth on the porch swing outside the summer kitchen.

One girl was tall, black-haired with the pale blue eyes of her mother, with perfect porcelain skin. The New York cousin had lighter hair, as her father was blonde headed, and slightly plump.

Martha turned startled eyes to her sister. "So you think that Isidore might do something?" she gulped.

"I know so. Frank told me about the scars on your husband's arms. Frank asked Izzy and he said he got them in a knife fight, years and years ago. He claimed the man who did it never got home that night."

Martha knew exactly the scars that her sister spoke of. She had run her fingers along them many times when they were enjoying each other. But Izzy had never explained them away like that, claiming they were from when he worked in a brutal barrel factory in Philadelphia as a teenager.

It was all so much of whirl, too much for Martha so she slumped down and leaned her head back on the cushions until things settled down. "And that's why you came here?"

Mattie nodded. "Part of it… You see, the boy started a rumor that Tilly was…" she stopped and pressed her hand to her mouth.

"Of easy virtue," finished Martha.

"And when the New York crowd got wind of that…"

"Oh my Lord!"

"We couldn't go out of the house for fear that someone would see us! Frank is still in Montreal and Toronto shuttling back and forth on his export deals. Seems the British cannot buy enough wheat and Tillie and I came out here until things die down."

"What if they don't?"

Mattie looked outside where their daughters played in the sun. "I've been thinking about taking her to Paris for a time."

"Paris?"

"Why not? Frank has been saying we should take the Grand Tour. He could meet us there. And I've heard that there is this dress maker that is just to _die_ for. Will you come? Will you? You and your lovely Cora?"


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter 4 – The Club – London

Brooks, also known as Phillip Brooks-Hall, scooted himself forward towards the Earl of Grantham and lowered his voice. "Dicky, I'm going to marry the girl." They were seated in Brooks' club on leather seats that were twice as old as the men.

"You are? It is because of the…" Richard whispered, "the…"

"Money. Yes. And a bit more, perhaps."

"Oh," Richard shifted himself and sipped at his claret. "Sorry to hear that."

Brooks looked about. "I'm not."

"You're joking with me."

"No, I'm not. Absolutely not."

"This Angelina, she isn't even British! Come on man!" Richard looked quite hard at his friend. Was he mad?

"It's pronounced with no 'gee' Dicky. Make it sound like an 'aitch' if you would." Brooks cleared his throat. "And her grandfather was British. Posted down there after his days in Egypt."

"Really," he stuttered. "I… didn't… know that."

"Dicky, don't worry about me. She is a lovely girl."

"And half your age! My God man, she must be all of twenty!"

"She's twenty-two plus her English is excellent."

Dicky drank his drink and looked hard at his friend – his oldest friend. "Brooks, is this what you want? Really?"

Brooks sighed and seemed to cast his eyes to heaven. "Lady Talbot has been pushing her daughter at me, her younger one."

"Lady Clara?"

"Yes, that one."

Richard rolled his eyes. "They do go on, don't they? You are single _and_ eligible."

"Just not very rich at the moment."

"Oh, Brooks. I am sorry about all this."

Brooks took a very deep breath and blew it out. "Has a face like a toad. Poor girl – takes after her mother. But her father would be prepared to settle my debts, fix the estate, and all that. A large dowry as well."

"So why not that one?"

Brooks laughed. "Have you ever spent more than five minutes with the fair Clara? The only thing she is halfway able to discuss are her dogs and the latest fashions. Not a brain in her head. Besides, it sounds like we're discussing the breeding of livestock, doesn't it? Nasty business."

"I see."

Brooks tossed his remaining claret down his throat and looked quite hard at his friend. "Dicky. I…" he gulped. "I don't know quite how to say this."

"Don't beat about the bush then."

"Angelina and I will be married this summer at her father's villa in Sorrento. Lovely place with the hills all covered with oranges and lemons, and they have the most amazing ruins over at Pompeii. Fantastic place. You should see it some time."

"You'll do it then?"

"Signorina Angelina Philogio accepted my proposal last month. She was quite sweet about it, you know."

"Hummph. All that lovely money will make you very happy, I am sure," Richard said sarcastically.

"It's a free country, Dicky."

Richard stood up. "Yes it is that. But I hope that the _free country_ as you put it is not going to the dogs."

Brooks flew up into his face. "Are you calling my fiancée a dog?" he hissed. "For if you are…"

Richard automatically took up a fighting stance, but looked very hard at Brooks and unclenched his fists and lowered his arms. "No, I'm not. Brooks, old fellow, I am sorry. Sorry for the disagreement, that is. I congratulate you on your engagement." He looked quite hard at his friend and then stuck out his right hand. "Will you shake on it?" He planted a genuine smile across his face as he said it.

Brooks smiled for the first time at his friend and then shook his friend's hand heartily. "I shall. I shall. Oh Dicky there is more."

"More?"

"Yes," Brooks smiled. "I love the girl you see. And that makes me so very happy."

"Love?" Richard peered deep at his friend's face. "Love? That word?"

"Yes! _That_ word."

Richard took his friend's elbow. "Well, that makes things different doesn't it?"

Brooks laughed. "Tremendously. Tremendously."

Richard clapped Brooks on the back. "Love? Yes, it is a slippery thing. So fleeting at times. It can turn on a whim, can't it?"

"A whim or a cheque book?"

That made Richard chuckle. "Or perhaps a turn of a pretty head?"

Brooks laughed aloud which disturbed those who slumbered by the fireplace. "Yes, a pretty head, what? And a lot more."

"You always did like the ladies, didn't you?"

Brooks pulled out two cigars and offered one to his friend. "Have one?"

Richard took out his penknife and trimmed the ends. "Do they have cigars in Sorrento?"

"Yes, very fine ones. Fantastic wine, oranges…" Brooks held out the cigar and examined it as a servant stepped forward to light the cigars.

The two men puffed away for a few moments until the tobacco lit and Richard spoke. "So tell me, Brooks. Whatever does one wear in Sorrento? I'm sure that Violet and I would love to come."

Brooks slapped Richard on the back. "Still friends then?"

"Of course. Of course." Richard puffed on his cigar then examined the glowing end. "If you'll still have me."

"Didn't we say that we were inseparable? Through thick and thin."

Richard nodded sagely. "Tell me more about your future bride."

Brooks puffed away. "Quite well educated – her tutors were from Paris and London. And she's writing a novel!"

"A novel. What a novel idea!"

The two men laughed together and the sleepers by the cold fireplace stirred and made upset comments about how in _their_ day, there was _no_ laughter in _the_ club.

**Note: **

**_Snowsie2011_ has pointed out to me the word fiancée is used when writing of the female partner of an engaged couple. The other, the man, is written fiancé. Thanks!**


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter 5 – A Plan – Cincinnati

Martha sagged back on the pillows after kissing Isidore goodnight.

He put his arm about her as she sighed. "Goodnight my love."

"My sweet," she whispered into the darkened bedroom. She sighed contentedly. "Isidore?"

"Hmmm?"

"I was thinking…"

"Martha when I hear you use my given name, I knew that you were thinking about something serious."

"I can't be serious?"

He rolled to his side and embraced her smooth body through the sheer silk gown. He ran a hand down her side and along her thigh. "You want to be serious? At this moment?" He hugged her even tighter and she squeaked.

Martha tried to push his roving hands away, semi-successfully. She shook her head in the darkness and thought that at least she had her husband's attention. "I was thinking…"

"Oh," he said and dropped his hands and scooted away from her. "Back to that." Isidore knew that when Martha used his full name and was _thinking_, there was no way to deter her thoughts. "All right. Go ahead." His voice whispered reluctantly in her ear.

Martha rolled over to face her husband and his beard tickled her chin as she kissed him again. "It's like this…"

"This is going to cost me money, isn't it?" He sighed into her face. "How much do you want?"

"Isidore, I don't really know."

"As much as that? Martha, I have a lot of money tied up with building the new stores in Indianapolis and Detroit, you know."

She kissed him again. "It's not for me, dearest."

"It's for Cora," he said resignedly. "How much? Should I call my bank right now or will you wait until the morning?" he added sarcastically. "For a new dress or a new carriage?"

Martha bit her lip and pressed her long body against his. "You're always _very_ generous."

He sat up and rubbed his face looking down at the form of his wife in the light from the gas lamp on the street. "What's this about, Martha?"

She reached out to hug him again, but he pushed her away forcefully. "No!" he said.

"Shhhh! You'll wake Cora!" she hissed.

He shook his head. "I will not lie here in my own bed, in my own house, and whisper like a fool in the night!"

Martha rose to her knees and looked very hard at her husband. "Isidore, don't be that way."

"Well don't you be that way back at me. Damn it. Cursed woman!"

"So why did you marry me, Isidore? Was I 'a _cursed_ woman' when you chased me all over the city? Canoe rides in the park, dinners with your friends…" she smiled. "You even took me to the Observatory to see Saturn!"

Isidore smiled down at her. "That was something. To see the rings."

"You proposed that night."

He chuckled. "Must have been the rings." He took her hand. "What are you planning, Martha? Just get to the point, I'm tired. Been a long day."

Martha pressed herself close to him. "I want to take a trip."

"Go then," he grunted. "I have the money for a trip for God's sake."

"I'm not sure…"

"Just tell me, woman! Sherman didn't have this much trouble in his march to the sea!" Spit it out!"

"Paris."

"All right."

"She's been just to New York and to Boston to visit my parents, and that was ten years ago."

"So go."

"Just like that?"

"Go. How much do you need? Can't need much for a short trip."

"To Paris?"

"Yes, Paris, Kentucky. It's not that far. I'll have George set up the tickets. When do you want to go?"

Martha pushed herself away from him and crossed her arms angrily. "Now you're making fun of me!"

"Over a trip to Paris?" Isidore saw the hurt face yet fiery eyes of his bride. "You're not talking about Paris, Kentucky," he said slowly.

She leaned over and kissed his lips. "No."

"God."

"I was thinking we could make a birthday gift for Cora! It would fun! Exciting!"

Isidore looked at his wife's excited face in the dimness. "This is going to cost a lot, isn't it?"

Martha smiled at him and moved closer. "Don't think about it."

"Paris?"

"Yes dear. Paris." Martha put the full force of her womanly charms into the kiss she planted on his lips.

"I know perfectly well what you are doing!" he hissed and pushed her back a tiny amount.

"Oh? Do you?" She threw her arms about his neck and kissed him again.

Isidore immediately knew that he had lost the battle, but as she continued to kiss him he didn't really care. Much later they nestled together under the sheets, their sweaty bodies cooling in the summer night. "Martha?" he asked.

"Hmmm?" she murmured into his bare chest.

"How long will you be gone?"

"Oh," she trailed a long finger down his chest. "Don't know." The hand kept moving and he squirmed.

"My god, woman, you are incorrigible!"

"Yes, I am."

"So how long?" he asked, but by then wasn't actually listening to her voice, as other messages pulsed through him under her tender ministrations.

"Perhaps…"

"Yeah?" he cleared his throat as he bent to kiss the top of her head.

"I don't know… maybe nine or ten…"

"Weeks?" he panted as she stroked his body.

"Months, Isidore, dearest. Months!" She whispered into his ear. "And I want to take Mattie and Tillie too."

He sighed, whether with delight or in surrender, he actually did not know.

**Notes:**

**Cincinnati Observatory – Dedicated by President James Quincy Adams in 1843 on Mt. Ida, later renamed Mt. Adams to honor the retired president.**

**General William Tecumseh Sherman – Lead a Union Army on a wide swath of destruction through the Confederacy in late 1864 from Atlanta, Georgia to Savannah, Georgia.**

**Paris, Kentucky – A small town 20 miles northeast of Lexington, Kentucky in the heart of Bourbon County.**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter 6 – Matters of Money – London

Richard examined his nails as Robert, Viscount Downton, also his youngest child, stood in front of him with a concerned look on his face. Somehow Grantham House in London seemed very cloying to him, but perhaps it was due to the heat this summer.

"You're serious?" Robert put hands on hips and glared at him.

Richard looked square at his son. "Yes, I am."

"But father…"

Richard held up a hand. "You have seen the accounts. We are losing tens of thousands of pounds each year."

Robert sat down on the divan in shock. "As bad as that?"

"The last garden party mama held the flowers alone cost £200 and the strings group another £150, plus all the claret…"

"Perhaps father, mama should entertain less?"

"And you think we haven't talked about that? But when we are invited by others we must reciprocate! Surely you must see that."

Robert shook his head of medium brown hair which waved about as he did so. "But if we economized…"

"Robert, this is a strange conversation isn't it? When your grandfather was alive he and I _never_ discussed money. It was not done! But now," he raised a hand to his brow. "You must see…"

Robert rose and walked to the window and stared out at the walled garden behind the London house. Whatever was papa telling him?

"The incomes keep dropping and dropping, and someday, when I am gone…"

Robert whirled from the window. "Don't say that!"

"Hear me out, Robert. Someday my boy, you will have to sit by our solicitors and bankers and write a very large cheque for the Death Duties. You can't keep on selling off the estate! When my father passed, I had to sell too large of an amount. And now everything is costlier and costlier."

"Yes, I see that. What it we planted more wheat?"

"Son, the blasted Americans are flooding the market with cheap wheat. Most comes from somewhere called Kansas, where ever in Hades that is. Some fellows over there are raking in the money, my money; money that ought to be ours!"

"Well can't we shift to other crops?"

"Those Colonials are shipping corn as well."

Robert slumped onto the divan again. "Damn."

Richard puffed on his cigar. "Yes. Damn."

The two men sat silently for a time, Robert wringing his hands, while his father smoked.

"You don't suppose we can borrow more? Just until things stabilize? Surely the cost of wheat can't keep going down, can it?"

"My boy, the more they ship the cheaper it gets, and the more they ship the less money Downton takes in."

"But… but… that's dastardly!"

"Welcome to the grim reality of the real world, Robert. Your mama and I have been discussing the thing and it's like this," he cleared his throat.

Hi son interrupted. "You're going to cut off my allowance, that it? That paltry £750 a year!" He rose in a flush. "How can I be with my friends if I can't have any fun?"

"Robert, why do you think so many of your friends are your friends? Every think of that?"

"No, not really."

"Your friends, Robert, like you _because_ you entertain them. The hunts, the fishing, the shoots, all the parties. Most of them are sucking up to you, boy."

"Well, it's not all like that at all! And I did supervise the wood harvest the last three years, and I haven't asked for a new hunter this year, as Comet is still quite a fine ride…"

Richard let his son rattle on for a bit about all the wonderful things that he did for the estate. Father looked at his son, their younger child, and wished that he had been forced as a boy to come to terms with reality in just this way. If the old man had filled in Richard on the way of the world… bah! Wool gathering won't solve today's problem.

Robert at last ended his oh so self-serving listing. "I don't suppose Painswick could help out. Rosamund's husband seems a good chap. Surely he'd help us out."

Richard laughed. "Your sister's husband Marmaduke? He'd be very glad to _lend_ me money at an exorbitant rate! That's the problem with those who _make_ their money. They always want more at our - those who _have_ it - expense."

Robert's face fell. "I suppose you are right."

Richard stubbed out his cigar. "Of course I am. So there you have it."

His son sighed. "So is it the poor house for us? Sell off the London house," he looked about the sumptuous room, "or what?"

Richard dreaded this moment and he knew that Violet was standing just outside with her ear to the door to make sure that he did it. He stood and crossed to his son and dropped a hand on his shoulder. "Son."

"Yes father?"

Richard breathed deeply and let it out. "We need to find you an heiress my boy."

Robert pushed his hand away. "I thought you'd let things develop in their own time? Must you push so?"

"Robert, I must. We must."

"I suppose I'll need to marry sometime. There must be a nice English girl out there with loads of money I can latch on to. That what you want?" he raised his voice. "Like a lamb to the slaughter?" Now his young voice was sarcastic. "Half of the women, no girls, that have been thrown at me are less than attractive." He threw up his hands.

The door flew open and Violet flew in. "Robert! You've told him?"

"Yes, mother," flew Robert's words, "how I'm like a prize bull to be sold off!"

Violet took his hand. "Robert, you must see that we need you to do this."

Their son's eyes fell to the floor in a pained expression.

Richard looked very hard at his son. "Robert!"

"Yes?" came his morose answer.

"Look at your mother and me when you speak! I'll not have you act like we have asked you to muck out the stable or fell trees? Good God Robert! You have had everything that you ever wanted or needed."

"And now you need something from me! That it?" Robert flung his arms about petulantly.

Violet looked sadly at her husband and son and then addressed the latter. "No son. Not us. It's not about your father and me at all. It's about… it's about _Downton Abbey_. It's the estate, which _must_ be kept intact. All that your father and grandfather - all those Grantham's down through the ages!" She whipped her folded fan at him and held it under his chin like a knife. "We shall do all that we can to make a suitable match for you! So chin up! And marriage isn't that bad, is it Richard?"

Richard was taken aback by her question. All that bad? He and she never discussed things like this!

Violet turned frightened eyes to his. "Is it, Richard? Bad, I mean?"

Richard considered the question, just long enough for Violet's face to fall. "No, my sweet. No. It is actually quite nice."

Robert took in the look his mother gave his father and stalked to the door. He stopped in the doorway and grasped the polished brass knob firmly. "I'll do it for Downton," he said. "Not for you." Then escaped from the room.

Violet's lips quivered. "I sincerely hope that you were not thinking of a certain Italian young woman were you, Richard?" she whispered into this ear.

"What's that?"

"Nothing," muttered Violet. She looked at the closing door, behind which their son had just stomped through. "Well that went well, I suppose."

Richard took her hand and kissed it. "Not as bad as it could have been. The boy did see reason."

"Did he Richard? I'm not so sure that he did."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7 – George – Cincinnati

"George! Get in here!" shouted Isidore Levinson.

George Ackerman, his efficient and prompt secretary, responded quickly by practically flying into the walnut paneled office in the company headquarters on Fifth Street in downtown Cincinnati.

"Boss?" asked the man, his mustache quivering as he braked to a halt in front of the massive desk that Isidore sat behind in a sumptuous leather covered swivel chair.

"I want you to speak to Mrs. Levinson. She has some travel to plan and I want you to work with her on it. Can you do that?" Isidore looked sharply at his secretary, a tall skinny kid, with slicked back blonde hair and muddy-blue eyes. He was not much of kid, Isidore knew, as his secretary was almost 28 years- old, but he still thought of him that way.

"Of course. When?"

"Right now. She has some crazy idea to take the girl to Europe."

"Cora?" George said and his eyes flew open wide. "What sort of a trip is this?"

"Oh, Martha's got it in her head that our daughter needs dresses – dresses from Paris, for God's sake!" Richard chuckled. "Anything to make her happy I suppose."

"I'll get right on it. I'll take the streetcar to your house; right away."

"You do that George. Now I warn you, Mrs. Levinson is strong headed, but you know that, so try not to get on her bad side. It won't do if you get her all flustered and then I'll have to hear about it!" Isidore rose, walked around the desk and took Ackerman by the elbow, walking him to the door. "The missus wants to leave as quickly as possible. Perhaps even before Cora's birthday. I would hate to miss her nineteen year bash. So…"

Ackerman immediately nodded. "Yes, Mr. Levinson. I understand."

"After all," said Isidore, "it might be very hard to buy tickets on such short notice especially considering the train connections you'll have to make."

"Perfectly, boss. Perfectly." George looked at the calendar on the wall. "Her birthday is the 18th of July, so…"

Isidore finished for his secretary. "Yes, I think it won't be possible until the end of July, right?"

George grinned at his boss and then wiped it from his face. "It shall be done as you wish, sir."

"Fine. Fine." Isidore left the man at the door. "Get to work on it. And I've got some word on that suit and shoe deal I was working on. Balfour telegraphed me that he might me able to work the deal at our terms."

"Wonderful! Anything else boss?"

Isidore sat down. "No. See you later, George." Isidore went back to looking at the quarterly receipt numbers and they did look encouraging. He was beating Mabel & Carew in the last sale, but those two kept waging special discount after discount. He sighed as business, like all business, was hard. He watched Ackerman leave and he knew he'd never be able to run the business without him. The kid was fantastically smart and a lightning calculator. Isidore wondered that perhaps he should give him a raise, again?

Ackerman went to his cubical, slipped into his coat, brushed back his hair in the restroom down the hall, carefully set his bowler on his head and went down to the street.

000

The Cincinnati Street Railway Company ran line eastward on Sixth Street so George hiked uptown, stepping over the normal refuse and litter of the city's cobblestone streets. He dodged many horse drawn delivery wagons, a hearse, and a fire engine making its way back to the firehouse, the crew looking tired and hot.

He heard the bell of the approaching streetcar and ran twenty yards to get to the stop in time. The brand new electric car slowed to a stop and people got on and off quickly. George hopped aboard, dropped a token into the coin box and the car started to move after a stop of less than a minute. The traction motor underneath the car smoothly pulled the long wooden coach along steel rails imbedded in the street, while a roof apparatus connected the car to overhead power lines.

The smell of ozone and electrical contacts popping had replaced the familiar, but slow, smell of horses and their clip-clopping hooves pulling the coach. Yet the car was ever so much faster than the horse drawn versions and the movement of the car through the humid and hot summer air gave some relief from the usual heat of the day.

In a few minutes, the car had turned north, and went further uptown to the foot of Mt. Auburn at Main Street. There he pulled a transfer ticket from the dispenser and alighted to catch the incline plane car. Cincinnati being built with so many hills abounding, the incline plane railway was a practical solution to getting from downtown to the surrounding communities.

A traction motor pulled an endless cable through pulleys and hoisted a horizontal carriage with a street car on it 800 feet from the base of Mt. Auburn to the summit. There George walked half a block, and caught the Mt. Auburn street car, which followed Auburn Avenue past row houses and stately brick homes.

Bit by bit he made his way to the boss's home, a large brick and frame structure with a large porch spanning the entire front, turreted outgrowths on the second floor, and a steep roof covered in slate.

George took off his hat, slicked his hair back using his reflection in the etched leaded-glass door panels and rang the bell. He heard a muffled voice, some footsteps and the door opened.

000

Cora had just come downstairs after a long session with her sewing box. She was making a counted cross-stitch sampler for her cousin, and her fingers were sore from pushing and pulling the needle through the material. She was using a pattern, emblazoned with the words 'Queen City of the West' extolling the many virtues of the city that was her home, when she heard the front bell ring.

"I'll get it!" she called and opened the door. "Why George! Hello! What brings you here?" Cora was well acquainted with her father's secretary since he had worked for her father almost ten years.

"I… I'm… uhmmm…" he cleared his throat. "Your… father sent… me to see your mother." He managed to get out the rest without too many stammers, which always seemed to happen when he faced Cora Levinson – the boss's daughter.

When George saw Cora, his heart beat faster, his pasteboard collar was too tight and his hands and feet grew clammy. He gulped as he tried very hard not to stare at Cora.

"Well, don't just stand out there in the heat. Come in," she said smiling at him.

George nearly fainted as his arm brushed against her hand as he went through the doorway. "Thanks… thank you, Miss Levinson."

"Oh, George! Don't be so _formal_. Miss Levinson?"

He nodded dumbly as she closed the door behind him.

"Nice to see you. You said you wanted mama?"

"Yes," he replied but he didn't want the chance meeting to end too soon. He gazed at beautiful Cora, as her dark chestnut hair and extremely pale blue eyes fixed him in place like a pin stuck in a collector's butterfly. Dimly he was aware that she was wearing a beige day dress with a round neck, puffed sleeves, and a flowing skirt, which in this heat seemed to be glued against those long, long legs of hers. The thought of all that she was made him shiver.

"What about?"

"The boss – that is your father – told me to come see her. That's all I know." He felt that a little lie would not hurt too much.

"Well it seems like such a long way to come just to see mama. And in this heat as well. You did come from papa's office? Would you like some lemonade?"

"Don't go to any trouble on _my_ account," he told her yet felt it might be quite nice to have lemonade with Cora. Cora – dear Cora. He shook his head to clear it. "Is your mother home?"

"No. She went out a bit ago, but I do expect her shortly. She went out with Mrs. Baker my aunt and my cousin Tillie." She took him by the elbow. "No need to stand here. Come on in for a lemonade and we can sit on the porch, if you like."

George felt like he'd died and gone to heaven. "If you insist." A few minutes, or even longer, alone with Cora Levinson? "You're sure?"

She tugged him to towards the kitchen. "I am." She walked him to the kitchen and directed the cook Mrs. Potter to fix two glasses of lemonade.

George sat bolt upright on the porch chair, sipping iced lemonade and listened to Cora talk about her latest piano lessons, about a book she was reading, and the latest baseball scores. He didn't really mind what she told him, as long as he could just sit nearby and hear her talk.

"George? George?"

"Hmm?" he broke from his reverie.

"Am I boring you?"

He gulped. "No. Not at all, Miss Levinson. Just thinking…"

"About what?" she leaned towards him and his heart skipped a beat or two. "Papa sent you to the house so I suppose this is about business of some sort, isn't it? And please, George, call me Cora. You have before."

George Ackerman felt like the Earth moved a little as she gazed at him. He could only nod his head slowly and mutter, "Business." The condensation on the glass chilled his hand, while the rest of him felt all warm and incredibly toasty and every sense felt like it was afire.

"You're sure I am not boring you?" Cora asked. "Positive?"

"No. Not a bit," he managed to croak out staring at her lovely features with his ears filled with her soft voice. "Go on, Cora. Please?"


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter 8 – Robert - London

Viscount Downton, also called Lord Downton, clapped his top hat on his head, tugged at his lapels and stomped towards the front door.

The London doorman, named David Cavendish, opened the door and asked him, "Will Lord Downton be wishing the carriage?"

"No."

"Might I caution the young gentleman that the weather looks rather threatening? Rain may be imminent," the man spoke in a deep resonating voice. His dark eyes cast a worried look at Robert from under bushy eyebrows.

"Thank you, David, for your concern. I'll carry an umbrella. Just going for a walk."

The doorman dropped his normally penetrating voice. "Are you all right, sir? I… uhm… could not help overhearing passionate words."

Robert grinned ruefully at the aged servant. "Thank you for asking. I am all right. Just need some air."

The servant brought back a large umbrella and formally handed it to the young viscount. "Sir."

"Thank you David. Nice to know that someone cares about the _younger_ child in this family," Robert said in a sad way.

"If I might comment, sir?"

"Yes? Go on."

Cavendish looked down the hall to ensure that no one was within earshot. "Pardon my saying so, sir, but families," he stopped and smiled grimly and then went on, "have situations to deal with, no matter their _station_. You are merely the unlucky recipient of having to deal with a situation. Sir." He bowed his head slightly.

"Thank you, David. I appreciate that."

"Is there anything else?"

Robert patted the man's arm in farewell and stepped from the house into the hurly-burly business of a busy London afternoon where the sidewalks were filled and carriages and wagons jostled for space on the crowded streets. He stood briefly at the foot of the broad steps and looked left and right. "Now, which way, Robert? Here you are. So make a decision." He mentally flipped a coin and turned left, towards the Thames.

He had no real destination in mind so this walk was to escape the heated atmosphere in the house, both thermal and emotional. He stuck a finger between his neck and collar and tugged, letting some of the heat trapped in his shirt seep out. This was a deuced hot summer, and those who were able or willing had already fled the city, no matter that the London Season still had four weeks to run.

A few of his friends had accepted invites to travel and were now in various places; Scotland, France, or even down Devon way. His two closest friends were some of that lot and he didn't actually feel like seeing anyone he knew particularly. So he walked aimlessly dodging pedestrians and coaches as he meandered about from street to street.

His disposition was sunk into gloom at the prospect of spending the rest of his life with a woman that his parents would select based on her fortune. Of course there were those men who were married and had a mistress or two on the side, under the idea that a wife was for money and heirs, but a mistress was for something entirely different.

His father was scathing in his opinion of those Dukes and Lords, or even the Sirs, who would do so, either sneaking about like burglars or making their way regardless of moral conventions.

"But is it necessary to marry just for money? Why in the world is that the case? Surely there must be some way to reconcile the two things – money and love?" he said aloud. He had stopped at a street corner to let an especially long wagon proceed past as he said it.

"Excuse me sir?" said a garrulous voice at his side. ""Are you speaking to me?"

Robert found a middle-aged vicar peering up at him as the man was rather short. "No. Excuse me padre. I was…"

"Muttering aloud. Yes," the man said. "I tend to do that as well, especially when I am puzzling over a message for my flock." He stroked his mutton chop whiskers. "A real struggle at times."

Robert inclined his head slightly and touched his top hat. "Please excuse me. I was speaking out of turn. I _do_ apologize."

"Family issues. Right?"

Before Robert could answer the vicar took his elbow. "Come with me good sir. I can tell that you are in need of advice!" He tugged at Robert's arm as he protested.

"No! I am merely taking a walk! I don't…"

"Tut-tut. Come along, come along. My name is Williamson. Mr. Williamson. My rectory is just here, not a block up the way, there by St. Stephen's!" He chuckled. "I was coming home from visiting one of my parishioners. Poor woman. Not long for this world. It's terrible to see how the human body can be so wracked with disease yet the spirit seems to will it to keep going!"

Not wanting to offend the holy man, Robert let himself be towed along like a barge in the wake of the fast walking little man, whose short legs churned quickly. He made various non-committal remarks to the vicar as the man went on about life and death and the holiness of watching someone die.

"It's almost like watching a birth!" he finished. "Going from one world to the other! A change of state! Fascinating, what?"

"So are we water or steam, Vicar?"

"I dare say that some of us are water in this world, for in the next the fires of damnation will surely instantly convert some of us into steam!" he laughed at this theological joke. "Sorry. In my spare time I attend science lectures. Can't help but try to expand one's mind!"

"Right." Robert found himself intrigued by Williamson and when arriving at the rectory allowed himself to be seated in a small walled garden with a glass of ice water and a palm fan in hand.

"Now!" said Vicar Williamson. "Whatever is the matter? For a young man such as yourself, you seemed quite agitated not minutes ago!"

Robert took a deep breath. "I should not trouble you with my concerns, Vicar."

"Nonsense! Nonsense. Come on – spit it out!" He laughed. "You'll find that your mind, body, and soul are greatly relieved once you have!" He sat down opposite Robert and cast a smiling face at him. "I am at your disposal."

"I really couldn't burden you." Robert sipped at the water and cleared his throat. "Family matters."

"I'm _not_ prying," replied the energetic vicar. "Well perhaps I am. Why don't you consider me the person that you are angry with? Your…"

"Erhm… father and mother both."

"Speak to me as you would speak to them if conventions were suspended."

"I really could not. It would be too absurd."

"Dear, oh dear. I cannot hope to imitate your parents, my boy. But rest assured that these large ears of mine have heard everything under the sun. Everything from marital issues, concerns over relatives, money…" Seeing Robert's face fall when hearing these words he stopped. "You know your issues, whatever it may be, are _not_ unique in the history of the world. And son, you have not given me your name, nor have I asked for it. Therefore, whatever you wish to speak to me, or any questions, answers, or comments that I might make are strictly confidential. Does that make you feel better?"

Robert took another sip of water set the glass down on the garden table and to his horror burst into tears.

Vicar Williamson handed the boy a kerchief and the young man wiped at his eyes and nose for a few minutes.

"I am so sorry…" gulped Robert. "It's just… it's so unfair!"

"My boy. My dear boy. It can't be all that bad, can it? Now, why don't you start at the beginning? No one can hear us here in the garden, and no one, certainly not I, will ever divulge anything that we discuss. In fact, I shall not ask your name, fair enough?"

Robert nodded and sniffled. "All right, Vicar. It's like this…"

The Vicar was not at all surprised by what he was told. The same old story and he'd heard it time and time again. He let the boy rattle on for quite a while before he spoke, letting all of his fear, frustration, sadness, and anger out.

Finally the well-dressed young man slumped back in his seat. "That's about it, I suppose."

"Feel better?" the vicar enquired.

"No. Well, perhaps some."

The vicar slapped his knee. "See? I told you that getting that off your chest was necessary!"

Robert felt strangely unburdened by telling the tale to this stranger; it _was_ cathartic.

"Your Downton Abbey is in Yorkshire?"

"Yes," Robert answered.

"And is very old, well loved, and beautiful?"

Robert sighed. "It is, padre. It is. Been in the family for hundreds of years."

The vicar steeped his fingertips together. "I mentioned that I like to hear science lectures."

"Yes. You did so."

"Care to know why?"

"Go ahead."

"You see I wanted to be a doctor. But the money for the education went to my older brother as he was deemed better fit for the role." He sighed and waved his arms about the garden. "Here is my rectory, so you can see what my grandfather, who held the purse strings, decided I should be - a pastor. While my brother delved deep into the intricacies of medical science – the concrete – I was fated to attend to the human soul and heart – something far more ephemeral."

"You said you go to lectures."

"I do. In fact the one this morning was on changes of state of a liquid into a gas – that is water to steam – or the opposite, liquid water turning to a solid – ice."

Robert scratched his head on not seeing what his point was. "I'm confused, sir."

"Well," the vicar smiled. "Water can be all three – a liquid, a solid, or a gas. Though I am a minister to men and women's souls, I can also appreciate the mysteries of the physical world, as well as the spiritual."

Robert shook his head. "Sorry, I'm losing the thread. Is there a thread?"

"Yes, my boy. You are your father's heir, yet you are also his son, a young man, a prospective bridegroom, and a future care taker for this Downton of yours."

"That's obvious. What of it?"

"I can be a vicar, a sometime scientist, and a tender of the Holy words. I am also a husband and a father." He leaned forward and tapped on the table in front of Robert. "I am all those things and more – much more. And I will say that for all the things that I am – being a husband might just be the best of them. For when I am sad, or lonely, or have had a hard day, my dear wife is there to comfort me, care for me. At times caring for others can be quite stressful! Yet when I am here, in this garden, and my wife calls me in for dinner, I go gladly – gladly! For when I am with my dear Elizabeth all is right with the world. Marriage – dear boy – is not a burden, as you seem to think. Surely you must see some affection between your parents?"

Robert rolled his eyes. "I do. Of course, I do." He knew the sly glances and fleeting touches mama and papa gave to one another, but it was never discussed. In fact he had never heard them either utter the word _love_.

"Well then! There you have it? Just be true to yourself, any future vows that you may make, and grow to love the person that you may someday marry. I daresay that you will have _some_ say in all this. Picking the girl that is."

"God, I hope so."

Mr. Williamson extended a hand to Robert and he held it firmly. "You mention God. God is in all that we do, see, think, and are. That is what I will leave with you. I do not know sir, if God will bless you as he has blessed me, but I am certain that if you enter into marriage in a proper mind; one of respect, fairness, and earnest belief in the Almighty, then things, both for you and your Downton Abbey, will come out quite right."

Robert turned the handclasp into a hand shake. "Thank you, Mr. Williamson. I shall think on our conversation."

"Good. Good! Is there anything else? Would you care to stay for tea?"

Robert fished out a pocket watch. "Lord! Sorry. Look at the time. Mama will be upset if I am late as we are to go to the theater tonight."

The vicar stood and pulled Robert to his feet. "Then go, my son. All will be well. You need not fear that in a marriage of right minds that you or the young woman yet to be named or selected, you will get on." He led Robert to the gate which opened onto the street. "Now, I bid you good day."

Robert shook the vicar's hand warmly. "I thank you sir for the chance to speak of this matter and to hear your council."

"You are very welcome. Now, young sir, you to home and your family and I to mine."

Robert pulled his pocket book free of his coat and took out a few pound notes.

The vicar backed up with a frown. "Oh, no sir. No thank you."

"Surely the poor box is always in need of donations, then."

The vicar accepted the money and bowed slightly. "Then the God above thanks you for the generosity."

Robert replaced his pocketbook. "Then I bid you good day and goodbye, vicar."

"Any time my son." The vicar cast his eyes up to the steeple next door. "Help is always available. You nearly need ask."

"Yes, I see. My name is Robert…"

The vicar held up his hands. "Hush, my son. No need."

"Crawley. My father is Lord Grantham." Robert smiled. "I'd hate for us to part as strangers."

"No stranger in the house of God my son."

Robert's eyes followed the line of the steeple. "I know. Goodbye sir," he replied then went back to the street. He walked home carrying the black umbrella as a cane, but now with a jaunty air in his step.


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter 9 – Martha's Wishes – Cincinnati

Martha and her sister Mattie, trailed by a droopy looking cousin Tillie, walked down the street and rose to the front porch of the Levinson's mansion. Martha was hot, sweaty, and tired, and was less than pleased to see George Ackerman being entertained by her daughter who was speaking to the man in an animated way.

"Cora? Whatever is going on?" Martha cast a piercing look at her daughter and Ackerman, whose hand was being held by her darling daughter.

Cora jumped up in surprise, dropping George's hand in the process. "Mama! Hello. George, I mean, Mr. Ackerman, came to see you."

"Yes…" stammered Ackerman as he jumped to his feet, holding his bowler in his hand. "Mr. Levinson sent me to see you, Mrs. Levinson." He waved his hat about. "I've been waiting." He looked at Cora then back at her. "Not that long, really."

Martha swiftly stepped to her daughter's side. "Cora. Mrs. Stuart will be here shortly for your piano lesson. Practice," she finished sharply. She resolved that Ackerman was getting too close and she knew what the moon-eyed look on his face meant. Oh no! No way would she let this pipsqueak get in the way of her plans! She resolved to be as business-like and as harsh as possible to the man.

"But mama, I was…" Cora blurted out. "Uhmm, we were _just_ talking."

"Of course you were dear. I'm sure that Mr. Ackerman has been _very polite_ about the whole thing, but the poor man was _absolutely bored_ to tears, weren't you George? Now, Cora go in and practice. Let Mr. Ackerman speak to me please?" She looked harshly at her daughter. "In private."

Cora turned her head to Ackerman and Martha saw the disappointed look on her face. "Goodbye, Mr. Ackerman."

Martha watched as Cora was followed into the house by her relatives and after the door had closed she turned her attention to her husband's secretary but not ignoring the evaluating look that both girls gave the tall skinny blonde-haired man. "Mr. Ackerman."

"Mrs. Levinson."

"Well go on boy, no need to delay! What did my husband send you to me for? Hmmm? So sorry that you had to wait so long." Martha rolled her eyes as she had seen Ackerman's sad look when Cora swished away. She sighed wondering if Izzy would mind terribly if George needed to get a new job, say in Indianapolis.

"Yes, he did."

Martha said, "I'm waiting for details."

George gulped nervously. "Mrs. Levinson, the Boss, I mean… Mr. Levinson… said that you wished to go to Europe."

"Yes. I do. Cora and I, accompanied by both my sister and niece. Think you can arrange that? Izzy speaks _just_ highly enough of you that you perhaps you might be able to make the plans?"

George's heart fell as she damned him with faint praise. "I can do that. Where do you wish to travel?"

"Yes. I wish to travel to Paris, first of course. I think we may spend a few weeks in Paris – a good hotel – then to Rome and points south. Cora once said that she wished to see Pompeii, that ruined city they've dug up near Naples, than back to Paris I suppose, then on to London and home."

George had pulled a small pad of paper from his coat and started scribbling. "How long in all?"

"Whatever it takes, Mr. Ackerman."

"I'll have to get the train schedules and the ship schedules, and see what hotels are available and when."

"You can do that by when?"

He scratched his head. "It may take several weeks to put it all together," he said, remembering the Boss's wishes. "Perhaps you could leave by the end of the month."

"August? In August George? Wait until August?"

"Yes ma'am. I think so."

"You think so? You _think_ so?" she raised her voice. "Why not sooner? Or is there some reason that you wish to delay our leaving? Something to do with my daughter, is it?" Now she was incensed and flushed with anger.

"My God, no! Oh, Mrs. Levinson, please excuse me, I didn't mean to say that. I'll try very hard to arrange things. Some of the train and ship schedules I can get at the Public Library. The hotels, I'll have to send telegrams over there and get a reply. I will try very hard to make it all happen and quickly!"

Martha observed how the grinning look on moon-struck man's face had now turned to panic. She sniffed. "See that you do, George Ackerman. See that you do."

George stood there sweating in the shade as the Boss's wife stared him down. "I'll," he stammered again, "get right on it." He moved to the steps and almost ran down to the sidewalk.

"George?" Martha called to him and beckoned him to come back to her. "Come back here, please?"

"Ma'am?"

Her fingers crooked once more. "Come to me."

He did as he was bid, walking up several steps towards her.

Martha reached down, as he stood two steps below her, and took his lapel in her fist. The other hand she used to poke a finger at his pale face. "George Ackerman. Mr. George Ackerman," she said slowly.

"Yes, ma'am?" his voice shook.

Martha could tell the boy was shaking. She smiled. "Now George, I have _plans_ for my daughter and so does my husband. I'd really hate for _you_ to ruin them."

"No ma'am, I'd not want to do that, not to Cora, uhmm, to Miss Levinson."

She dropped her voice. "And from now on, when you speak to or about my daughter, you will use the term _Miss Levinson_, never Cora or Miss Cora. And…"

"And?" he gulped so loudly she could hear the sound.

"I know that my husband thinks that he needs you for his business, but," Martha smiled with muscles of steel in her face and her voice was so low even she could barely hear it. "If you ever… ever… _speak_ to her or are _with_ her with _no one else_ in attendance, I shall take the hatchet from our kitchen woodpile and personally use it. On _you_." She stopped. "Do I make myself perfectly clear that if I do, you will never ever be able to _entertain_ a lady or anyone else - including _yourself_?" She smiled grimly. "Delicate matters for me to discuss, George. I trust that _you_ understand me?"

George's eye almost popped from his head and he slowly nodded in fear.

She reached out to pat his cheek and he flinched. "Good. Good boy. Glad we had this little chat, Mr. Ackerman."

"Yes," he murmured as he tried to pull away.

She released his coat and stood up straight. "Then goodbye, Mr. Ackerman. See you soon, with those train schedules, yes?"

George unsteadily stood in front of her having no doubt that she was serious. "Goodbye, Mrs. Levinson," he whispered then almost ran away.

Martha watched the man dash down the street and disappear around the corner, certain that the man understood her quite perfectly. She smiled. "See you soon, George." She went into the house to supervise her daughter's piano practice, dusting her hands off as she went.

**Notes:**

**The Cincinnati Public Library – Traces its root to a subscription lending library founded in 1802. It was renamed the Cincinnati Public Library in 1853 and still stands on the site of the original 1853 building at Eighth and Vine Streets downtown.**


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter 10 – Early July - London

"Richard?" called out Violet across the breakfast table to where her husband had his nose buried in the newspapers.

"Yes?" he grunted not liking his morning being interrupted, but he did lower the paper enough to look at his wife. "I'm reading."

"I can see that, silly man. This," she held out a formal invitation, "is from your friend Brooks. Fancy a trip south, my dear?"

Richard snagged the paper and read it. "Yes" he sighed. "I knew about this."

"Oh?" sniffed his wife. "I understand, not that I listen to rumors mind you, but I did hear that there is a reason for all this!" She clammed up as the door opened and their son entered.

"Hear what?" Robert asked.

"Well…" she looked up at her tall and handsome son. "I did hear that Brooks' future father-in-law wishes them to be married and _quickly_." She stressed the last word.

Robert helped himself to kedgeree and fruit. "Mother, who did you hear this from? Has my dear sister been paying attention to the gossip circuit once more?" He rolled his eyes as he sat down. "Sister Rosamund does love a good story."

"No."

"Well, then who?"

"Lady Flincher, your young cousin."

"What's Penelope had her nose stuck in now?" he starting eating as Cavendish the butler poured out a glass of orange juice and sat it before him. "Thank you David."

"Sir." The butler bowed then went back to being invisible.

Richard folded his paper and tossed it down. "I do not like all this gossiping about at the breakfast table! It gives me indigestion and a headache!"

"Oh, really? Shall we call the doctor for your innards, or does this have something to do with all the Scotch that you imbibed last evening staying up late and playing cards? Hm?" Violet could not stop herself from putting the knife in. She did not mind that her husband drank, just not too much. It had been a lovely dinner last evening with the Talbots and Creaches. She had so wished to spend her own form of enjoyment with her husband, but the stupid man had stumbled upstairs quite late. When she went to investigate, freshly perfumed and wearing her sheerest silk nightgown, she found Lord Grantham splayed across his bed in full dress, snoring, and smelling of strong drink.

Richard turned reddened eyes to his bride. "No my dear. I shall be fine, in time."

"Of course, you will Richard. And son, how are you today? You seem to be in a finer fettle than last week. You were quite cross about – well you know."

Robert put down his fork. "I am well today, thank you. And as of late I…"

"You what?" probed his mother.

"I met someone who set me straight. Had a chat with this fellow."

"Is this someone we know?" Violet inquired. "I'd hate for you to be discussing _family matters_ outside of the house!"

Richard looked at the butler. "David, please leave us. I shall ring if we need something."

The man nodded. "Very good milord."

Richard waited until the door closed behind the servant and let silence fall for a few seconds. "Violet, about Brooks, he has asked me to be his best man."

Violet bristled. "Heavens! I'll need a new dress! Richard, you should have told me."

"I did not know that their wedding plans were going to be so rushed." Lord Grantham threw up his hands. "So don't be angry with me over something Brooks has done. Brooks…" Richard started to say. "Robert."

"Yes papa?"

"This is _strictly_ confidential."

"Right. Go on then," he answered solemnly.

Richard stood and paced back and forth for a few steps. "It seems that Brooks has gotten into a spot of trouble."

"What about?" asked Robert but he saw a sneer form on his mother's face. "Anything to do with a certain rumor?"

"You've heard it too?" Violet clasped her hands together. "Yes, it would seem that Brooks and his Italian, ehrm, _lady_, have been busy. And the trouble is not with Brooks, exactly." She sniffed.

Understanding dawned on Robert's face. "Oh. I see."

Richard fingered the tablecloth before he spoke. "The rest of the girl's extensive family does not know of this unexpected _event_ so the wedding is being rushed or Brooks may lose everything. He needs the money, but he does love the girl deeply he says, and if word of this got out, it would ruin Brooks and the fair Angelina. But my friend will do the honourable thing and marry her."

Violet sniffed again. "I _told you_ her neckline was far too low!" She sat up prim and proper. "Robert, when you marry, you would do well to have only sons and keep a _firm rein_ on them. But if you have daughters, then heaven help you!"

Robert grinned at his mother's advice. Since he had no wife, or even a fiancée, it all sounded very hypothetical. "I'll remember, mama."

Richard straightened. "Brooks is my oldest and dearest friend and I shall be traveling to Italy for the wedding. My wife and son will, of course, accompany me." He put a hand to his forehead. "God this headache!"

Violet smiled grimly. "Late cards and drink - a foul combination! And you Robert are you happy to be going with us?"

Robert smiled. "I dare say should be interesting. Lots of ruins to see."

"And not just falling down buildings either, I imagine," muttered Violet.

"So we're to have an expedition then?" Robert asked his young face full of interest.

"Yes," said Violet. "With a whirlwind stop in Paris! I hope that Mr. Worth is able to accommodate me." She stood and plopped her napkin onto the table. "I'd better get my maid to see what I have that I can possibly wear!" Violet strode to the door. "Better start packing."

"It will take mama three weeks to pack?" asked Robert.

"Yes. It will," sighed Lord Grantham.

Both men laughed together.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter 11 – In the Garden – Cincinnati

"Oh, Cora! This sounds so great! I can't wait, can you? And we leave in two weeks!"

Cora tiredly looked at her cousin, Tilly. "It's all right, I suppose."

"You're not excited? I am!" said her cousin who was just three months younger than she. "We'll be in Europe on my birthday!"

"Yes," said Cora, idly playing with the cat that lived under the porch. Mama didn't like the cat, but Mrs. Potter fed it scraps to keep it around the house and eat the mice in the woodpile. She had been steadily working for the last three years to get close to the tabby cat. This summer, at least the cat would tolerate her hand on her head, which was so soft, the feel was amazing. "I expect it's a lot like here."

"What? You're joking? Paris. My goodness, Cora, it will be wonderful!" Tilly was practically bouncing up and down in glee. "The museums will be fabulous. And the cathedrals! I always wanted to see one of those!"

"Tilly, there are cathedrals in New York City, silly girl."

"But not as big as Notre Dame! I can't wait!"

Cora turned her head towards the house. She caught a glimpse of her mother pacing to and fro on the rear screened-in porch where George Ackerman sat with a stack of paperwork in front of him. She sighed and her cousin noticed.

"Cora?" Tilly put a hand on her cousin's. "That Mr. Ackerman, he seems very nice."

Cora didn't react at first and then stood up, slowly taking her hand free of her cousin. She dropped her eyes to her cousin and nodded. "Yes," her soft voice whispered. "He is nice." Her face turned back to the house. "I'll miss seeing him."

"It doesn't seem like I've ever seen you together, other than that day on the porch." Tilly stood and took Cora's arm in hers, elbow to elbow. "Shortly we'll be walking down the streets of Paris, France. I expect they will be lots of other boys over there."

Cora's face had such a sad look that it made Tilly take her away from the house along the brick path to a stand of fruit trees at the rear of the property. When they reached a bench there, Cora slumped down and put her face in her hands. "Oh, Cora. No, don't cry. Please don't do that. Please?"

Her cousin slumped forward, pressing her chest against her lap. "Oh, Tilly. I will miss George. More than you know."

"Cora Levinson, are you saying that you like George? I like his hair, all gold and those blue eyes. Those are nice. He's a bit skinny though."

Cora shot bolt upright. "George Ackerman is _not_ skinny! He's just _slender_! Don't say bad things about him!"

"My my, cousin. It surely sounds to me like you have, well, how should I put it? I am sweet on him just a little?"

Cora twisted a kerchief in her hands and sighed, sadness going back to her face, after the flash of anger. "I don't know." She sniffed. "I really don't know, Tilly."

"But Aunt Martha is so strict with the man, always shooing the two of us away when he shows up."

"Mama definitely has her own ideas about me…" her voice fell, "and George. We've never ever done anything, just talked. Tilly, I've known him since I've been eight years old!"

Tilly looked back towards the house. "Well, Cora. When I was home in New York," the girl stopped and her face twitched, "you know, I've been around some boys."

"Oh silly, you've never ever been with a boy."

Tilly tossed her long chestnut braid over her shoulder. "Uh-uh."

"No…" Cora hissed. "No. You're lying."

Tilly shook her head. "I'm not," she said defiantly. "Not at all."

"Oh my. You're serious! You're serious!" Cora giggled. "What was it like?"

Tilly turned her head away and was silent for a bit. "I'm sorry. I'm just… making it up. I just said that to make you jealous." She tittered. "Silly old me."

"Oh, I thought so, cousin. My goodness. Listen to us! We're terrible, aren't we?"

Cora's cousin sat very stiffly then uttered a strange laugh. "Yes. We are," she said then laughed again.

"I'll tell you a secret, Tilly. But you have to promise me that you won't tell a soul, not ever!"

"Oh gosh. Really? You'll tell me a secret?"

Cora gazed back at the house. "I will."

"Go on!"

"Well, I used to…"

"To what, cousin?"

Cora sat back down by her younger cousin. "Promise you won't tell?"

"Never. Never, ever! Cross my heart and hope to die!" she made an X-sign over her full left bosom. Tilly looked earnestly at her cousin. "Go on, Cousin Cora."

Cora brushed a strand of hair from her face. "Sometimes," she whispered, "sometimes…"

"Go on dearest. Tell me."

"Sometimes, I dream about George." Cora sat slumped on the bench in a heap her breath coming fast in little gasps.

Tilly hugged her cousin briefly, then stood and peered at the house. "Oh my." She patted her cousin's hair. "I do imagine that you would dear."

"So you see why it will be so hard to leave?"

Tilly sat back down and tenderly hugged Cora. "I do see that Cora. I do see that you would feel that way."

The two girls sat there sniffling back tears. One for the sense of imminent loss and the other for the sense of something she never had.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter 12 – Before Dinner - London

"Go on, girl!" shouted Lady Violet at her lady's maid and shook her head about the poor state of service these days. "Pull! Tighter!"

The girl stopped tugging. "I don't want to hurt milady."

Violet half turned. "Sally, if I wish to cut my head off, you _shall_. Understood?"

"Yes milady," the girl half curtseyed.

"I am waiting," said Violet as she took a tighter grip on the four poster column. "Can't be any worse than childbirth," she muttered.

Sally Ames was all of twenty two years old but she'd been in service since she was ten, working as the lowest junior housemaid for Violet's mother. When the old lady died she went to work for Lord and Lady Grantham at the London house for a time. Eventually she was afforded the great honor, or so she was told, of working at the big house in Yorkshire. She remembered the shock she had the first time she was there and had gotten lost more than she cared to recall those first few weeks.

Eventually she had learned enough, as others had quit, died, or been released, to be elevated to her ladyship's junior lady's maid. This Season she had followed Lady Grantham to London, as her Ladyship's more senior maid had fallen ill just before the Season opened.

Sally felt no ill will towards her employer, but she wrapped the laces firmly about her small hands and pulled for all she was worth.

Violet squeaked as the air was forced form her lungs. "E… en… ough!" she managed to gasp out, nearly fainting as for quite a little while she could not get her breath.

Sally turned pale. "Too tight?"

Violet turned around stiffly, and looked at her reflection in the floor mirror. She put her hands on her waist and could almost circle her waist with her hands. "Not bad, girl." She turned to the side and admired the uplift her bosom had taken from the corset. She tried to inhale deeply and saw that nothing moved. "That will do my dear," she chuckled. "But it seems to me if one could do away with the barbaric custom of compressing the waist to nearly nothing, a much more sheer garment might be useful to support the upper parts."

"I don't know milady. Never heard of such a thing."

Violet pulled two kerchiefs from the bureau and draped them over her anatomy, one per side. "You know… a garment like this… might support the bosoms without crushing the lungs?" she turned side to side. "What do you think?"

Sally tried not to sneer. "Not exactly traditional, milady, begging your pardon."

Violet flung the silk kerchiefs to the dresser. "No. A corset it shall be. Just you remember girl that if still in my employ when I die, I want you to lace that corset tightly! No sense in going to Heaven looking… shall I say, incorrect?"

Sally stifled a laugh. "No milady."

"Good girl. I think so too." She held out her hands. "Now dear girl, you can stuff me into that gorgeous dress, although it's a year old."

Sally picked up the pea green dress, decorated with panels of pale lace, with tiny bows at the shoulders and bust. A beige silk rose decorated the shoulder over the heart. Sally could not help but feel left out of the occasion as she settled the dress, worth far more than any savings she would ever accumulate, onto her mistress. She ran a hand down the dress, smoothing the folds after closing the ties, and with her other hand ran it down the black cotton dress she was allowed to wear in the evening; one of the three that she owned.

Violet watched her middle-aged body became transformed as the past work of David Worth, designer par excellence, made of her the stuff of legend. "Not quite Helen of Troy," said Violet, "but very presentable! Now, do you think you are able to work the same wonders with my hair that you did last week?"

"Of course, milady. But I was thinking that I could weave a ribbon into the bouffant." She held a strip of ribbon the exact same shade as the dress. "What might your ladyship think?"

Violet smiled at her maid in the mirror and sighed happily. "Sally, I must tell Mrs. Evers that you are a wonder." Mrs. Evers was the head housekeeper. "A wonder!" She touched the ribbon. "You don't think it will make me look too young?"

Sally considered a few seconds how to answer. "Milady… I just think it would complement the dress, is all."

Violet looked at the ribbon's reflection in the mirror and she recalled a summer's ball long ago, when she'd worn such a ribbon. She shook her head. "No. Sadly, I fear those days are gone."

"As your ladyship wishes." The girl curtseyed slightly.

"Sally?"

"Yes, milady?"

"If it was within my power, my dear, I would wish myself to be twenty years younger!" she tittered at herself. "Then I would be beribboned with abandon!"

Sally held back a small grin but then let it grow. "Milady! You are beautiful, as always!"

"Pish! Flattery will get you nowhere, my girl." Violet rubbed at the lines around her eyes, faint though they may be. "Let us press on and see what we may do with the old thing yet? Hm?"

Sally smiled and went to work on her ladyship's hair.

000

Lord Grantham looked at the mantel clock. "Sorry for the delay, Brooks. I really don't know what is keeping Violet."

Brooks waved a hand. "No problem, Dicky." He leaned back on the red sofa and stretched his arms over his head. "I'm just enjoying having nothing to do for a few days is all. I'll be pushing off on the boat from Southampton soon enough."

"Hm. Ready for all that?"

"Yes," Brooks sighed, "the sooner the better. I don't know much about these things, it never really came up while fishing and at the shoot, but it seems that Angelina," he cleared his throat. "Well, in three weeks we shall be married, and in around six months or so… God."

"You'll be a father."

Brooks laughed. "I am a father already, Dicky. Just not quite up to snuff, yet. Poor little beggar has no idea of the world he or she will be entering in a few months."

"Yes. And the lovely Angelina is, just where?"

"Oh, Lord, having the wedding dress fit up properly as we speak. Has to be Paris of course. There must be no women at all left in the entire world as they are queued up to be fitted by the magnificent dress makers there."

Richard drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. "By God! Do you think you could travel a few days earlier? Violet is leaving in three days. Could you travel with her? Take Robert as well."

Brooks nodded his slender head. "Of course. Glad to. He's a fine chap, your Robert. Far better a young man than you and I were at his age!"

Lord Grantham smiled. "Yes. But I seem to remember it was you that was chasing all the maids!"

"And you dear Dicky were sitting bored to tears at various dinners and in drawing rooms testing the matrimonial waters."

Richard sighed. "I wasn't married yet, but the noose _was_ tightening."

The door opened and Robert walked in. "Evening father." He nodded gravely. "Your Grace."

"Robert, hello! Brooks has agreed to accompany mama on her trip to Paris and I think you should tag along. Brooks will be then leaving for Italy, and when I get free in two weeks. I'll meet you and we can all journey south together. What do you think?"

Robert sighed. "Might as well. London is nearly dead, with the heat and the end of the Season."

"It's agreed then!" said Richard as with a swish of silk, Lady Grantham arrived.

"Oh dear, have I missed any major negotiations?" Violet laughed. "Your Grace! Not long for England, is it?"

"No," said Brooks proudly as he stood up and swept to Lady Grantham's side. "You look lovely, as always." He took her gloved hand and brushed it with his lips.

She smiled hugely at the man. "Flattery will get you nearly anywhere, your Grace. But not there! Are we all ready?" Violet saw her husband's happy face as he saw the finery that bedecked her body and hair, and the jewels she had chosen, emeralds set in silver, had provided just the right touch to the ensemble. She hoped Richard would not imbibe too much this evening as he looked so handsome in his evening wear.

Brooks took her arm as they walked to the door. "Lady Grantham, you are always looking ravishing!"

She tittered. "You should _not_ see me in the morning. Richard shall you have the man ring the gong?"

Richard signaled to Cavendish who took up a small mallet and rang a Chinese gong on the sideboard to signal the kitchen staff to start the first course of dinner.

"But your Grace?" Violet went on. "Tell me that you shan't miss the girls of England too much. After all, your charming fiancée is _so elegant_."

Brooks nodded. "She is that. Incredibly sweet and refined, and…" he cleared his throat, "quite demure."

Violet nodded in agreement. "Oh yes. A real shrinking violet, wouldn't you say?" She peered up at his face with an impish smile.

Brooks new full well the rumors that were swirling about the Angelina and him. But knowing Lady Grantham as he did, he properly surmised that she was poking fun at him, if only a little. "And at one time you were just the same."

Violet tittered. "I can see why she chose you! You are full of merriment, especially this evening!"

They walked into the dining room and were seated, Cavendish assisting Violet to position her chair at the table. "Thank you, Cavendish."

"An honor, milady."

She waved him away as she looked at her son who sat morosely at table. "And Robert, you certainly look _so_ animated this evening," she said with sarcasm. "Cheer up. You may accompany me to Paris."

Robert tried to smile. "Mother, I am certain it will exceed my expectations."

"Yes," Violet said. "It shall." She looked down at the dinner card on the brilliant white linen covering the table. "Oh, I see cook has made Filet of Sole. Wonderful! I feel positively Continental!"

"Yes," said Robert. "Won't be long now."


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter 13 – Mid-July 1887 – Cincinnati

Isidore looked very sharply at his secretary who lately had taken a very formal manner with him and it drove him crazy. "George, is something wrong with you?"

"No, Mr. Levinson."

"You're sure."

"Yes, sir."

"I see," said Izzy. "So if everything is so damn fine, than what in Hades is this _Mr_. Levinson guff?"

George stared down at his desk. "Nothing, sir."

"A _sir_ on top of a Mr. Levinson? George! Look at me!"

George slowly looked at up his employer, no worse than that - his friend who was also the father of the girl that he… that he… he gulped and cut that thought off quickly. "Nothing, sir."

"Ah, I see." Izzy rocked back on his heels and tucked his hands behind his back. "Nothing, eh?" He circled the small office that his secretary used, looking at the bare walls, unfilled other than with a hanging calendar and a small shelf that held a few books and a company catalogue. He orbited the room and came back to stare at George. "Nothing's wrong, you say."

"Yes. Yes, that's what I said."

"Getting all the travel arrangements for Cora and Mrs. Levinson?"

George's head bobbed briefly than came up in a beaten expression. The boy sighed. "About done." He pulled out a folder and tapped it. "It's all… right… in here." George stood up slowly, squared his shoulders and looked at Isidore. "Sir, I think… oh, it's no good, boss! I can't stand it anymore!"

Isidore watched as the tall boy dropped into the chair and put his head in hands next. "Oh," he hissed. "I see."

"No, you don't boss!" George yelled at him, now with a face red in fury. "You don't!"

Izzy whirled on his heel and left.

George sat back stunned at what had just happened. He slowly pulled his key fob from his pocket and removed the company keys, for the door, his desk and the safe. He placed them carefully on the desk, lining them up each with the other. He stood and pulled the dust cover over his type-writer, pushed his chair in under the knee hole and ran his hand over the leather where he had slaved for so many long years. He was reaching for his hat and coat when Isidore rushed back into the room.

"Where in the devil are you going, boy?" Izzy barked now feeling quite cross and perplexed.

"I'm…" George faced his employer. "I… boss. I don't know… I'm going though."

"Going?"

"I'm… I _have_ to leave, boss."

"For the day?"

"No. Isidore, I'm _quitting_ before you _fire_ me." George shook as he said the words, as he was very certain that when Isidore Levinson got done sending a few telegrams, he'd have to go to Mexico City to find a job. There was one word that was going through his head, and that was _blacklist_.

"Fire you?" Izzy stared at the hopeless and helpless look of George Ackerman.

George looked away. "You will."

"No why would I do that? You're the best employee I have! Why without _you_ I'd not be able to run the place, or certainly not half as well!"

George stayed silent but was thinking very swiftly. He sighed and rubbed his chest.

"Chest hurt?"

George nodded. "Yeah."

Izzy grinned briefly. "Stay right there." He whirled and left again.

George slowly pulled on his coat, settled his hat on his head and walked to the door.

Isidore bustled up behind him and took his arm and walked him to the door. "Come George. I know just what you need."

George saw his boss now wearing his own coat and hat who then whisked him out the door and down the stairs leaving a clutch of curious clerks behind.

The sidewalks of Downtown were crowded as always, but Isidore marched George along like a drill sergeant. Every attempt that George made to speak or protest, Isidore shushed him back to silence and walked him along even faster. After a few blocks, and now on Fourth Street, George found himself being whisked through the highly polished mahogany doors of the Merchant's Club.

After the doorman had greeted Mr. Levinson and taken their hats, George was pushed into a private drawing room, had a mug of cold lager beer pushed into his hand and was clinking the drinking vessel with his boss.

"Drink up, George!" said Izzy. "I could tell that we needed to discuss some things."

George gulped down the frothy beverage and wiped foam from his lips. "Yes. I suppose."

Izzy took a long draft from his mug then pointed to the closed door. "That door is closed, George Ackerman. What we say to one another, just like any other business deals I have made in this room, stay in here." He tapped the table and his head. "And here."

George nodded and took another swallow. "Fine beer."

"Yes. Hudepohl brews it right up Main Street and the edge of Over The Rhine and trots three barrels of the stuff down here every morning." He took another sip. "Ludwig Hudepohl himself taps the bungs in himself, or so he claims. Drink up boy."

"Not much of a drinker."

Izzy laughed. "In Cincinnati? Not much of a drinker?"

George squirmed. "No."

Izzy shook his head. "You must be…" he cleared his throat put down the glass and leaned forward. "George, how long have you loved my daughter?"

George felt his eyes bug out and a cold sweat broke out to add to that already soaking his body. "I…" he stuttered, "I…"

Izzy sat back in his chair. "Come on George. You can trust me. Tell me."

George threw back the rest of his lager in a huge guzzle and set the empty glass on the table. He shook his head. "No."

"It's as plain as the nose on your face George!

George scratched his head. "It's that obvious?"

Izzy laughed and lightly punched his shoulder. "What's not to love? She's beautiful, smart, dresses well…"

George smiled. "Yes…" he hissed, "and more."

"And she has quite a pile of dough sitting in a number of banks in her name, as well as plenty of stocks and bonds! What's not to love, eh?" Izzy believed in laying all the cards on the table to disarm his opponents. "Am I right?"

"Of course you are. I mean, I… uhm… Mr. Levinson," George said, "Miss Levinson is all that and more. But boss, it's not about the money, uhm, your money…"

Izzy smiled. "And you're more than sweet on her?"

George nodded miserably and wrung his hands. "Every time I go to see Mrs. Levinson, she always makes your daughter leave the room, or go outside, or take a walk, or…"

"So as Martha reviews the travel plans, she makes Cora leave."

"Yes, boss, that's true." George stopped his hand wringing. "What am I going to do? She'll be gone in two weeks, and then… God, I don't know what I'll do! If… I can't see her… even from a distance."

Izzy pursed his lips. "I think, George that my Martha has her own ideas about this trip to Europe. I suspect it's not just so the girl can see Paris and London."

"Rome too."

"Oh, as far away as that?"

George nodded in misery. "Mr. Levinson, if I had any idea that things would happen like this…"

Izzy finished his own glass. "I think George that I need to throw a rock into the cogs of the machine of my dear Martha." He pushed an electric button on the table and the door was whisked open.

"Sir?" asked a waiter.

"Two more lagers for me and my friend, Walter. No, make that four. We'll need them." Isidore faced George. "A little misery got you thinking and talking. A few more beers won't hurt, right?"

George sighed, feeling like a pawn trapped between two armies. "Yes, boss. If you say so."

"Tell me, George, what else do you like about Cora?"

"Ah, she's sweet, and her eyes, are… you know… and she likes baseball."

Izzy smiled as George poured out his heart to him. He pulled out a cigar and lit it thinking how he might be able to satisfy George, himself, and do what was right for his daughter. But Martha would not be pleased, if he was right about his dearest wife and her intricate plans. "Go on George, tell me more."

**Author's Notes:**

**Cincinnati, due to the many Germanic people who immigrated to the city in the mid-1800's, rapidly became a brewing hub. Ludwig Hudepohl II started a brewery in the city in 1885 and rose to one of the top five in the city over the next 100 years. Many brewers set up shop, some actually in the basements of the saloons their owners built.**

**The area along the Miami and Erie Canal, in Cincinnati, which stretched from near Lake Erie to the Ohio River, was nicknamed Over The Rhine by the locals due to the many Germans who lived and worked in the area. That part of the city is still called that today.**

**The canal was started in 1825 and was a major north-south transport line, long before the railroads were built. Canal boats were pulled along by horse and mules, and a series of locks were built to keep water levels navigable. Only a very few of the original locks or stretches of the canal remain.**


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter 14 – Late July 1887 - 7 Rue de la Paix, Paris

Lady Grantham stood in the viewing salon and let David Worth inspect her. Yes, there was no doubt that was what he was doing, inspecting. "Are you quite finished, maestro? Or shall I send word to my son, the Viscount Downton, and say I am staying late?" She fanned herself in the warm air.

"Is Madame too warm?" the celebrated dress designer David Worth asked. He snapped his fingers and an aide appeared carrying a tray of iced water. "If the lights are too warm," he waved a hand and the bright lights of the viewing salon were dimmed. "Better?"

Violet accepted the long fluted glass and drank thirstily, yet primly. "Yes, maestro. Much better." Having known Worth for years she felt able to call him by an honorific title, and not the more formal _Mr._ Worth. Although, her bosom heaved deeply, there were times she had called him David.

David Worth stood before her in a beret and a cape-like affair rather than a coat. He brushed his bushy moustache anxiously as his grey eyes looked her up and down. "Lady Grantham, I believe it has been too long since you have come to see me. Far too long! From now on, I want you to call on me whenever you feel the need or the desire to be lavish with both praise and to be draped in one of my heavenly creations!" He bowed. "I am at you service as always! Turn please, if you would, once more. Yes completely, around. That's it."

Violet did as commanded, feeling quite pampered although at times, she knew, Worth could be quite – how to say it – full of himself. She kept a semi-forced smile as she pivoted letting the man see her from all angles.

"Stop!" you shouted. "Don't move!" He walked to her and lifted her chin slightly. He backed up. "There, perfect! Such a fine neck. Yes?" he glanced at his artist cum secretary who proffered a slate with a large portfolio on it. Worth flicked through the pages. He muttered to himself. "Green? No. Blue?" He pursed his lips. "You'll be where exactly?

"Sorrento, Italy, maestro. My husband's friend, the Duke of Chambers shall be married there."

"Sorrento?" He twisted his moustaches on each side. "Many trees there, plenty of green. The sea is blue, so blue, and the hillsides all in lemons." He struck his head with a blow. "Yes! Yes!" He flipped the pages. "Genius!" He held out the portfolio to Violet. "I think this will do."

Violet looked at the page he showed where a poster of a striking dress was shown but in a color she never wore. "Yellow?"

"No, no! Not yellow! Not at all!" He bent his neck and whispered to one of his many waiting attendants who then rushed from the room. "When you see the color of silk, it will take your breath away!" he clapped his hands and looked at the wall clock impatiently. "We are waiting!" he said and though not in a hectoring way or a shout, every one of his employees stiffened.

The designer stomped to the door in irritation and jerked the door open. Just then the helper he had sent away returned bearing a large bolt of a pastel material.

"Give!" he shouted and he turned and stretching out several yards of the material held it up to Violet's middle-age form and taking an elbow, bade her turn to face a full length mirror. With deft hands and cunningly placed spring clips, he draped the form to her, tucking and folding. "Viola!"

Violet stared at someone who did not look like her. No that was wrong. The dress, she thought as ran her fingers over the material, felt like a second skin it was so smooth. The woman in the mirror was her, but one that looked ten years, if not more younger. "I…" she stammered.

"You see! And this is not yellow! I call it limon – lemon! See, how it lightens your face, brightens you hair; it glorifies your form Lady Grantham. Ruffles, of course, at the bust, a think a bow or two at the shoulders. A small bustle. But you see…" he waved a hand. "Words fail me!"

Violet now saw what Worth was telling her. Granted most of the man was puffery and moonshine, but my God the man could use material and stitching! "It is…" she cleared her throat and felt a tear begin to form in her right eye. "Rather wonderful. Yes," she sighed. "Very, very…"

Worth bowed his head. "It shall take eight weeks."

"Eight weeks? But maestro, I need it in two!"

"Eh? Two?" he held up two fingers for emphasis, and looked aghast at her. "Two. Du?"

"Yes. Two weeks. I must have it by the end of July as we shall be then travelling…" Violet's voice failed. "Unless, you are telling me you cannot help me! For if you are," she turned to face her lady's maid, "there is that other person. Monsieur Pinchot, isn't that it, Sally?"

Sally Ames sat primly on the satin cushions and watched Lady Grantham work her magic. She had no idea who Monsieur Pinchot was, but she nodded and smiled. "Yes," she squeaked.

Worth exploded. "Pinchot! Henri Pinchot?" He ripped the beret from his head and started to twist it. "My Lady, no! No! He would ruin you! That… horrible man… he," now his eyes were starting from his head in shock. "No! I'll not permit it!" He bowed swiftly. "My Lady, please, I beg you, allow me the honor of dressing you in only the finest…" He sighed. "Two weeks. No! Ten days!"

Violet looked at herself in the mirror. "Oh, I don't know. Perhaps, Pinchot could do something else at the neck?" She brushed the neckline. "Seems a bit high, don't you think?"

Worth blew air through his nose. "No! An outrage!" He stopped and clapped his hands together. "Lady Grantham. Trust me! It shall be magnifique!"

Violet turned on the smile. "If you must. If you must."

Worth clapped his hands. "Yes! Yes! Wonderful!"

Violet wondered if the man was this energetic in private as well as in public and she blushed. She suspected that David's wife must be a rather understanding creature dealing with this mercurial, but extremely talented man.

"Lady Grantham, you do me an honor to save you!" Worth went on like that for a few more seconds.

"Maestro?" she asked. "If you would, could you please unwrap me?" She blushed once more. "I seem to be anchored by this bolt of cloth, lying at my feet."

Worth and an attendant swiftly unfastened the clips, and rolled the material from her, as she breathed a sigh of relief. "I felt like one of the horrid mummies. All wrapped from toe to crown."

Worth smiled at her. He played the game well, and although Pinchot might be able to dress Lady Grantham, he could not well afford letting it be known that _the_ Worth had failed one of clients. David bobbed his head. The game was to stay on top, he knew. He decided to sweeten the pot. "And who is this fair lady?" he asked sweeping a bow at Sally Ames.

"I… I…" Sally started to say. She was dressed in her finest dress, and felt positively shabby in the salon of the great dress designer.

"She's my maid," sniffed Violet.

Worth snapped his fingers, stretched out a manicured hand and taking the girl's hand tugged her to her feet. "Mademoiselle has a name?"

"Her name is Sally," answered Violet when the girl could not answer. "Ames. Just a maid."

Worth smiled, as Sally was rather beautiful with her full lips, upright carriage and tiny waist which complimented her womanly curves. "Lady Grantham, are you travelling with any other ladies in your party?"

"No, sadly, not," said Violet who was now sipping at another glass of iced water. "Just Grantham and Downton," she said naming her husband and son.

Worth circled the maid who now looked like a scared rabbit. "Will you permit me to dress your maid, my lady? Fitting that she should be dressed in finery for when you are out? Yes?"

Sally started to quiver and tried to catch her lady's eye to show her fright.

Worth got nose to nose with Sally. "Amazing pale blue eyes, young lady. Amazing. I think blue! Yes, blue! A pastel silk," he glanced at Violet. "Or perhaps an aqua? Not as amazing as your own dress, my lady. But adequate! Very!"

Sally gulped as Worth ogled her, not with avarice, she thought, but more as an artist might survey a landscape to paint.

"My lady?" asked Worth. "It would glorify you and your party! Please? Let me do this for you!"

Violet sighed, knowing that she had lost this game. The game of pleading the cost down, as Worth had now out-foxed her, before the hunt had even begun. She could not very well turn the man down and lose face. "Alright. Do your best."

"Thank you, my lady! It is always an honor to serve a beautiful and gracious lady such as yourself!" He turned an appreciative eye to the young girl. "No two beautiful women! Thank you! Thank you!"

Lady Grantham fumed inside knowing that Richard would be very cross with her. "I suppose it will be acceptable."

"My lady?"

"Yes?" Violet answered now peeved.

"The House of Worth will provide the materials, the labor, and the design for your ladies maid, this Sally Ames, on the house!"

"Really?" Violet's forced smile turned genuine. "Then I…" she looked at Sally, who now looked quite shocked, "no - _we_ - accept."

**Author's notes:**

**As mentioned previously The House of Worth, founded by David Worth an expatriate Englishman, was a major force in lady's fashions. His studio was at 7 Rue de la Paix, in Paris. **

**The Rue de la Paix is still a fashionable shopping area in the center of Paris. It is in the 2nd arrondissement of Paris.**


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter 15 – July 18, 1887 – Cora's Party

"Izzy!" shouted Martha. "What do you mean you're having second thoughts?" She waved her arms wildly at him. "Her party is tonight and you are trying to ruin it?"

Isidore looked sternly at Martha who was as puffed as a mother hen. "That's not what I said dear," he said sarcastically.

"Don't you use that tone with me, Isidore Levinson! Why…" she started to sniffle, "all our plans to give her the absolutely best 18th birthday! And today you are trying my patience!"

Isidore sneered at her. "Martha! Balderdash!"

She inhaled deeply. "Don't you talk like that to me! I'll have you know, that I've had all I can take!"

He went close and towered over her as she sat at her dressing table. "Martha," he started softly, "what I said was I want to make a minor adjustment to your travel plans. Is that going to ruin the party tonight?"

She fanned herself. "I…" she stammered, "thought that you had something else in mind." Her Chinese fan moved more swiftly now. "You quite scared me!"

He poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the dresser and drank it deliberately to gather her thoughts. He slowly placed the empty glass on the tray before he said another word. "Now, here's what I was thinking. I've been reading the papers especially the foreign news. Ahem, I want to ensure that you and our daughter _and_ your sister and niece are safe is all. So I wish to," he stopped to mentally edit out the word _demand_ and replace it with another, "_suggest_ that you have another person in your party."

"What do you mean?" she asked as she started to powder herself to absorb sweat and not stain her new dress.

He sighed. "I think that two women, and the girls, plus the maids of course, need… ahem, a man about you."

"Oh, really?" She looked daggers at him in the mirror. "You think that women aren't capable? That's it isn't it! Well, Mr. Levinson, let me tell you…"

He stopped her words by bending down and kissing the soft skin of her neck just above her shoulder. She sighed as he allowed his lips to linger momentarily. "Martha," he said huskily, "I want…"

She smiled at his image. "Of course, you do, dear Mr. Levinson. Later… perhaps."

He sighed knowing that Martha believed that she had power – the power of her womanly charms – over him. He smiled inside, thinking that was true, but only up to a point. He kissed her neck again but this time she gently whacked his head with her fan.

"Izzy. Stop. The guests will be here soon and there are a hundred things yet to be done."

The way she said it he knew she was right. He stood, reluctantly. "Of course, you're right, my sweet. But…" he cleared his throat, "I wish that there was some way I could be _certain_ that you'll be safe."

"Oh, bother. We will all be fine." She put a hand to her face though and she wiped at an eyelash. "What makes you think that there would be an issue?"

He stepped back and put his hands on her bare shoulders and her overshirt straps. Her pierced her eyes with his in the mirror. "There have been some disturbances in Berlin and Moscow. Nothing in Paris or Rome. But…"

"Oh." She fanned herself now a little concerned.

"Labor issues – the usual nonsense. Martha, I want to send George with you."

"George?" Her mouthed dropped open and her eyes grew alarmed.

"My secretary. George Ackerman. With all the research he's done to arrange the tickets and the hotels, so forth, he'll be very handy."

Martha stayed frozen in shock. George? Take George with them, she thought in a panic. Martha closed her mouth and tried to regain some composure. "George."

"Yes, that's the man's name. He'll be very helpful in case of problems with tickets, and if the railroads are run as poorly over there as they are here, he _will_ be needed. A useful man."

Martha sighed softly. "George Ackerman."

"Yes, my sweet."

She pursed her lips. "You really _think_ we might need him." She said if like a statement of fact.

"I do. Martha, recall when you and Cora went to Cleveland three years ago in the winter? Got stuck in Centerville? For two days?"

"Dear, there _was_ a railroad bridge fire. The Baltimore and Ohio had no control over it." She fanned herself. "We had to wait."

"But what if that happened in the Italian Republic? That place has hardly been a real country for twenty years. God knows what might happen."

She bristled. "Does Ackerman speak Italian or French? If he does not I don't want him." She did not want him to go along for one reason and one reason only, but she would not say it.

Izzy knew this was gap in his battle plan. "Sadly he does not. But he will be very well armed with travel guides, he has corresponded with the concierges of every hotel you will be staying in, plus he is a man."

"There you go playing the _man_ card again." Her reflection was defiant.

"Take him or I'll not let you let go, Martha." He turned on his heel and left the bedroom, closing the door firmly in his wake.

Martha looked at herself in the mirror with concern. Did Izzy figure out her plan? She'd not said a word to anyone, however she had left hints. Her husband was smart, too smart at times and almost as smart as herself. She sighed. "Very well, Isidore," she spoke to her image. "But I will not let you foil me! Damn the man!" she hissed quietly.

When Janine Bauer came in to see if her employer needed help, she found Martha sitting bolt upright staring into the mirror.

"Mrs. Levinson, are you all right?" Janine asked.

"Yes," she went back to her makeup. "Now, what she we do with this hair?" she turned her head back and forth.

Janine smiled. "I was thinking that I could braid this and wrap it up here …"

000

"Iz, your Martha does know how to throw a party!" Hall said as he joined Isidore for a cigar in the backyard. Martha had designated a _lounging area_, she called it, in the far corner of the yard for those who absolutely had to smoke a cigar. Izzy smoked them in the house, but Martha put her foot down at the thought and stink that thirty or forty so cigars might make in their home.

Isidore looked at Charles Hall and nodded. "My Martha has been planning this little thing for weeks, if not years."

Hall smiled as he had four daughters. "Oh, God yes. When the ladies get an idea…" He made a sound. "Phuuushhh." Then went back to speech. "We'd all better just get out of the way," the man laughed.

"If you'll excuse me, Charles, I see my fair one coming this way."

"Martha?" Hall craned his head around.

"No." Isidore threw his cigar into the rose bushes. "My Cora." He smiled his finest smile as he walked towards her.

Cora was wearing a beautiful light green gown which had cost over fifty dollars and the seamstresses who'd created the thing were likely drowning their sorrows at the moment, given the many changes that Martha had made them make. He'd heard some of it in passing. The sleeves were too short and then too long. The neck line was too low and then too high and so forth. The waist was too low… But it was now long and flowing with a small bustle, her waist neatly nipped in tightly below her proud bust line.

There was a matching hair decoration on the crown of her dark curls which Janine and Martha had sweated bullets over for hours, curling her glorious hair in tiny curls one by one with curling irons, then wrapping them onto paper twists to hold them in place until just before the event. Of course in typical July southwest Ohio fashion, the air was extremely muggy, the air nearly still, and the heat of the day was still stifling.

Isidore tugged at the tight collar of his shirt and tried not to sweat or turn his head too much as it hurt the skin of his neck. Granted the ladies had to put up with various tortuous undergarments, but at least their necks, shoulders, and arms could be exposed to the summer air. Some even had very low neck lines, like that the young widow Mrs. Taylor, who most of the young bachelors were following about like dogs in heat. Isidore had to be very careful when he and his wife were nearby that lady for his eyes would automatically stray, and if caught Martha would not forgive him.

As she walked across the yard, Cora felt all eyes on her, and some had broken into applause as she exited the rear door of the house. She could only keep smiling, turning her head this way and that with a slight nod. These were mostly her father's friends plus her mother's with just a few of hers. Her mama had been quite adamant on who was invited and who was not. This had led to many tears until some compromises were met. Cora was not blind when she realized that every other girl there was less than her age, and all looked less pretty than she did.

She sighed, feeling the corset constrict her breathing. She hated corsets and their confining feeling. She'd rather dress imply so she could move and most important _breathe_! But she kept her smile fixed as she walked to her father, her green slippers step-by-step appearing very briefly as she walked to him as it would not do to show an ankle.

As Isidore walked towards his daughter under the canopy of Chinese lanterns strung to-and-fro across the yard, he sighed as he carefully beheld their only child. Oh they had tried for others but nothing ever came of it. He put on a genuine smile as he took her slender hands and kissed her cheek. "Cora, sweetheart, I hope you are enjoying your birthday party." His breath had caught in his throat as she approached him and he'd managed to choke back a tiny sob as he realized that she was a _woman_ – no longer a girl.

"Oh, Papa. It is nice. So…" she waved a slim arm at the decorations strewn about the yard, "pretty."

"Just pretty?" Isidore held back with arguing with his daughter, for this was _her day_, but he dreaded the bills that were already stacked up.

She smiled. "That's not what I meant. Thank you for…"

Cora had been almost breathless with excitement about the European trip her mother announced to the assembled guests as they gathered about the birthday cake served after the roast chicken and fixings had been devoured.

All had wondered what her present would be and were suitably impressed (some might say jealous) of the magnificence. "Oh, Papa! Paris and Rome!" Cora flung her arms about him briefly.

He nodded. "London as well. And we've arranged it so you can go see that ruined city you're so taken with."

"I know…" she bit her lip. "But it's so very far."

Isidore turned her about and put his hand on her elbow, sheathed in a long glove. "Life, my dear is a journey. Near or far…" he choked up and cleared his throat. "Ahem. We have to travel it."

"Papa, thank you! I'll remember it."

He sighed as they reached the rear porch. "My father would say that."

"He was wise, I think," she said. "I wish I could meet him."

That took Isidore aback for a few seconds. "Yes I suppose so he was." He held the door open and he ushered back into the heat of the house, where more guests were clustered over cake and lemonade, but some of the men had brought harder stuff in flasks.

Heads turned and they applauded, while Cora smiled, proudly escorted into the dining room by her now thoughtful father.


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter 16 – Late July 1887 – Paris

Robert, Viscount Downton, rested against the stone wall at the edge of the pavement and looked down on the Seine from the Right Bank. He watched water taxis going back and forth, barges loaded with coal, wood, foodstuffs, and innumerable things. He took off his top hat and wiped the sweat from inside it and returned it to his head. Paris was sunny and warm, warmer even than London had been and he felt perspiration soaking into his wool suit. To his right the hulking mass of the Louvre, to his left and down river, the Ponte Neuf and Ile Notre-Dame.

He'd explored the ancient cathedral that morning, and though he was staunchly C of E, he felt a hushed reverence come over his soul as he surveyed the huge church. The towering columns and the longest nave he'd ever seen made any anti-papist feelings submerge for a time. The ornate decorations venerating God, Jesus Christ and the Holy Ghost made a marked impression on him.

He'd lingered over the commemorative plaque set in the wall, marking the dedication of the place, the foundation laid in 1163. Robert stared up at the soaring interior, touched the engraved dedication stone, and felt a sense of responsibility that must have been held by all those over the ages to the present. He thought of Downton, the house stretching back to 1692, but the property to the 8th century.

"Beat you by three centuries, by God!" he whispered then finished his tour.

Mama and her maid were shopping of course, Brooks had left them for points south, and Robert felt both left out and put upon. He had made an appeal to his mother to be allowed to travel with Brooks to Italy as an advance party.

His mother had stamped her foot, fixed him with an icy stare, and pronounced one word. "No."

Feeling trapped by his duty and his mother's icy word, for several days he had wandered about the city, finding quiet parks, and lovely cafes, amid the hustle and bustle that was one the world's great cities.

One of the many booksellers, with their stalls bolted to the wall, hailed him in heavily accented French. Robert's poor French let him know the man was hawking, politely, one of the many books for sale. Robert knew that the French _bouquiniste_ stalls were fiercely guarded by their owners, as well as those who valued both for literary and esthetic sense, having independent and affordable book stalls in the city.

"Pardon. Vous êtes Anglais, monsieur? "

"Oui." Purely to be polite, Robert stepped to the man and asked the man, "Qu'est-ce que vous avez pour moi, monsieur?"

The man held out a large leather bound volume, the brown cover heavily worked and it was thick a good 500 pages or more. The cover read "_Life on the Mississippi" Mark Twain – Illustrated. _"Mississippi?" he said, puzzled. "What's that?" Intrigued he opened it and turned to the first page.

_Chapter 1_  
_The River and Its History_

_THE Mississippi is well worth reading about. It is not a commonplace river, but on the contrary is in all ways remarkable. Considering the Missouri its main branch, it is the longest river in the world - four thousand three hundred miles. It seems safe to say that it is also the crookedest river in the world, since in one part of its journey it uses up one thousand three hundred miles to cover the same ground that the crow would fly over in six hundred and seventy-five. It discharges three times as much water as the St. Lawrence, twenty-five times as much as the Rhine, and three hundred and thirty-eight times as much as the Thames. No other river has so vast a drainage-basin: it draws its water supply from twenty-eight States and Territories; from Delaware, on the Atlantic seaboard, and from all the country between that and Idaho on the Pacific slope - a spread of forty-five degrees of longitude. The Mississippi receives and carries to the Gulf water from fifty-four subordinate rivers that are navigable by steamboats, and from some hundreds that are navigable by flats and keels. The area of its drainage-basin is as great as the combined areas of England, Wales, Scotland, Ireland, France, Spain, Portugal, Germany, Austria, Italy, and Turkey; and almost all this wide region is fertile; the Mississippi valley, proper, is exceptionally so. _

Robert laughed. "This is the American?"

The book seller shrugged and asked a price.

Robert turned deeper into the book. He read this:

_Chapter 5_  
_I Want to be a Cub-pilot_

_MONTHS afterward the hope within me struggled to a reluctant death, and I found myself without an ambition. But I was ashamed to go home. I was in Cincinnati, and I set to work to map out a new career. I had been reading about the recent exploration of the river Amazon by an expedition sent out by our government. It was said that the expedition, owing to difficulties, had not thoroughly explored a part of the country lying about the head-waters, some four thousand miles from the mouth of the river. _

_It was only about fifteen hundred miles from Cincinnati to New Orleans, where I could doubtless get a ship. I had thirty dollars left; I would go and complete the exploration of the Amazon. This was all the thought I gave to the subject. I never was great in matters of detail. I packed my valise, and took passage on an ancient tub called the 'Paul Jones,' for New Orleans. For the sum of sixteen dollars I had the scarred and tarnished splendors of 'her' main saloon principally to myself, for she was not a creature to attract the eye of wiser travelers. _

"Cincinnati?" asked Robert aloud. "Wasn't he a Roman general, once?"

The book seller asked another price, now markedly lower than before.

Robert closed the book and ran his hands over the binding. It looked nearly new, but for some fingermarks on some of the pages and two scuffs on the binding.

The book seller smiled appealingly but now held out his hand, rubbing his fingers together.

Robert pursed his lips. He'd heard of this book but had never read it. The name _Mark Twain_ sounded so foreign, so _American_. He laughed as he dug out his pocketbook and dropped five francs into the man's grubby hands.

The man doffed his grimy beret. "Merci," the seller said smiling once more through his yellow teeth.

Robert tipped his hat and tucking the book under his arm strode off. He walked further along the river, enjoying the hustle and bustle. He could have just as easily sat in the reception or the smoking lounge of the hotel where their little party was staying, yet he found the place with its huge halls, damask wallpaper and gilded woodwork faded and depressing.

He walked past the Louvre to the Tuileries Gardens, site of a vanished palace, abandoned, then burned and demolished, years before yet the remaining gardens were huge and magnificent. He found an empty bench, facing the Seine, opened the book and began to read in earnest about the vast wonders of far off America as seen through the eyes of a wanderer.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter 17 – End of July – Cincinnati

"It says here their ships are _practically unsinkable_? How can they say that?" Cora nearly threw down the pamphlet that George had handed her. "Even if they have all these water tight doors and bulkheads they describe, how can they say their ships can't sink?"

"I suppose it means that they have taken all precautions," George muttered. Despite Isidore laying down the law with Martha, he still felt quite nervous sitting this close to Cora, although Cousin Tilly sat between them. He stuck a finger between his collar and his neck, feeling sweat trickle down his skin. There was no breeze at all this afternoon, and the muggy air, plus the electricity in the air made it all the hotter. George crossed his legs and tried to remain calm in the company he was keeping.

"What's that mean?" asked Cousin Tilly in a squeaky voice.

George caught Cora rolling her eyes at her slightly dim cousin. "Miss Baker," he started to say. "They have lifeboats and such. Water tight compartments if the ship would spring a leak."

"Well that's silly. If the boat leaked, they'd just pump the water out, right?" Tilly turned her head from Cora to George.

George was taken by the extreme similarity of the two girls. They had the same dark hair and pale blue eyes, pearly complexion, and carriage. Of course he thought Cora much prettier of the two.

Yet Cora was ever so much more clever than her Boston cousin. No, that wasn't right, George knew. The word _clever_ didn't even begin to cover it. He knew that Cora had attended some courses at the College of Arts at the University of Cincinnati. Though, of course, she'd not been able to take the exams, he heard it bragged about that 'that Levinson girl' had out argued a Classics professor on the merits of Roman and Greek civilizations. She had made her point that the Romans, for all their far flung influence, had gotten a head start from the Greeks and technically were a degenerate version of Greek civilization. Apparently the professor had nearly had apoplexy during her forceful and factual delivery.

And, he sighed silently, Cora was sweet, charming, and beautiful and at the same time could discuss the latest baseball standings with accuracy and clarity.

"Tilly! Don't be so dense! Of course they can pump it out; all boats leak somewhat; but what if the ship would hit something?" Cora admonished Tilly.

"Well, what would they hit?" cousin asked.

Cora looked at George with a priceless glance. "Other ships, logs, rocks, the like."

"Well wouldn't the captain steer the ship around those things?" Tilly gasped. "I can't believe that any ship's captain would just go barging ahead at full speed and crash into things! Wouldn't that spell the end of him and the ship?"

Cora turned the page. "It says here that the ship has the most lovely lady's lounge with a piano too! That will be nice." She read on. "It seems to me that the Hamburg-America Packet Company has all the bases covered." She cleared her throat trying to change the subject.

George chuckled at the baseball term thrown into the travel discussion. "That's why I chose it. Steam powered, heated staterooms, three meals, plus afternoon tea and a late evening snack at ten o'clock! And a top speed of over twenty miles an hour. They have a separate men's smoking room, a library, a ballroom and a huge dining salon, and the two newer ships have saltwater swimming pools."

"A swimming pool? I'm not sure I'd use that," exclaimed Tilly. "Will we have time to swim? Mama says the ship will get there in less than a week!"

"Yes," nodded George. "The ship will leave from New York, get to Southampton in just under a week, and all our luggage will be sent straight from the ship to the rail station, from there to the cross Channel ferry, right to the train, and in another few hours, we'll be in Paris."

"This all sounds fabulous George! You've really down your homework." Cora reached over her cousin's lap and took his hand.

George felt his heart skip a beat. "My pleasure. Your father, wanted it all arranged. I'm just following his orders."

"Well you have a done a fantastic job, I am sure," said Tilly, breaking the moment, putting her hand onto Cora's and plucking it from George's fingers.

Cora looked sharply at Tilly. Had Mama told Tilly to keep between her and George Ackerman? "Oh, Tilly, I was thinking, why don't you go in and ask Mrs. Potter for iced tea? Aren't you parched?" She fanned herself.

Tilly stood and smiled down at her cousin. "Alright." She stepped towards the kitchen door. "Don't you two do anything, now."

Cora held her hand to her mouth until Tilly went inside and the screen door swung shut. "I thought she'd never leave." She sighed and flashed George a huge smile. "I really am glad that you'll be travelling with us, George."

George's heart was in his throat. "Miss Levinson, I…"

Cora cut him short. "George? Cora. _Please_. Call me Cora." Her voice was soft and sibilant. "This will be the most wonderful trip, don't you think?" She took his hand and rubbed his fingers. "I… really appreciate all you've done, George." Her gaze faltered momentarily then faced his eyes once more.

"I… just did what your mother… wished," he stammered. "But your mother does…" he cleared his throat. "She scares me, Cora," he ducked his head. "She…"

Cora took both his hands. "Oh, George," she sighed. "Mama has been running off any number of boys who even thought they liked me." She smiled looking up at his muddy- blue eyes. "And…"

"And?" he choked out.

"I _do_ like you George. Don't let my mother bamboozle you. Stand up to her," Cora said softly.

Suddenly the kitchen door banged opened and Tilly came out with a tray. "Who wants tea?"

Cora quickly dropped George's hands. "Tea. Yes." Cora sat up straighter.

Tilly poured tea from a pitcher into three tall glasses filled with ice. "George do you take sugar with your tea?"

George could only nod, his voice having disappeared about the time that Cora held both his hands.

Tillt dropped two sugar lumps into George's glass and handed it to him. "Here."

He took the glass dumbly and sipped it.

Tilly sat down with her glass of chilled tea. "You know," she began," I was thinking about the ship we'll be on. Are there lifeboats? What if the ship would leak and start to sink? They'd put us off in lifeboats, right? Wouldn't that be exciting?" Cousin Tilly gushed.

George's eyes grew wide as Cora returned his shocked look. "Exciting yes."

"Romantic I think!" added Tilly. She sipped her tea.

Cora looked at her father's secretary and felt herself blush.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter 18 – A Tea Room in July - Paris

"Robert? You seem to have your nose firmly attached to that book! Whatever are you reading?" the Countess of Grantham asked Downton. "Don't you wish to speak to your mama?" Violet picked up her tea cup and looked pointedly at her son.

Robert reluctantly lowered Twain's _Life on the Mississippi_ with a sigh. "Sorry, mama. This is _fascinating_. I had no idea that America was so…"

"Vulgar? Rough? Loutish?" she replied. She peered down her nose at him. "And I should not have to remind you that reading while with family is far too rude."

"Sorry, mother."

"We are not at home, but still… one must keep up appearances." She smiled. "But tell me about it."

Robert smiled. "A man named Mark Twain wrote this book some years back about his adventures in becoming a riverboat pilot on the largest river in the America."

"A riverboat pilot? Sounds frightfully common to me." She chuckled. "I do hope you aren't going to take up that line of work. It would be frightfully _awkward_ to describe what my son, the Viscount of Downton, was doing to occupy his time."

Robert faced his mother squarely, but the book's pages were calling to him – the world of muddy river water, reefs and snags, cargoes of cotton, molasses, wood and people all crowded together on docks and decks, while women with large frilly hoop skirts and parasols to protect them from the sun paraded on deck. Those visions faded as he looked at his mother's judgmental face. "No need to be sarcastic, mother."

"No, I suppose not." Her head roamed around the tea room of the Parisian hotel. "How have you been spending your time, Robert? Hm?"

"This and that," he sighed. "Went to museums of course and Notre Dame is rather magnificent."

She sniffed disapprovingly. "I'll wager it's not nearly as grand as Westminster. Wrong sort of Christianity, besides."

Robert grinned knowing better than to argue with his mother. "No."

"I thought not." She looked across the room. "Robert, do you see that lovely girl over there?" She discreetly pointed a gloved finger. "The mauve dress."

Robert followed her finger. "Yes."

"Isn't she the loveliest thing? I hear that she is an Austrian princess, or something, or at least should have been but for an accident of birth. But she has money. Her name is…"

Robert stood and glared down at Violet. "Mother," he hissed through his teeth, "I won't have you casting about under every rock and bush to find a wife for me!"

"Oh, dear. Have I upset you? Not what I intended. But look, Robert, there she goes." They watched as the young woman and her chaperone rose and left the space, every head following their departure. When the previous level of conversation rose about them, Violet glanced at her son, with a long look on her face. "Another one on the market and you don't even seem to care. And such lovely blonde hair and that figure… oh my."

Robert found himself clenching his fists. "Mama – mother – I find it very _strange_ to be having this conversation with you. And here of all places!"

"Well Robert, unless you wish to lead a live of celibacy and at the end have neither the Abbey nor family about then good luck to you." She took his hand gently. "Son. Please don't be cross with me."

Robert blew out the air he was holding. "I'm not cross, mama."

Violet watched as her son whirled and left her and even the Continentals about her noticed the woman who tried very hard to keep her composure. Why, she thought, would Robert not get in the game? He seemed to like the company of woman and girls, unless… She resisted the urge to chew on a fingernail even through her glove. He wasn't interested?

She rapidly marched after Robert and chased him onto the hotel terrace, overlooking a side garden. "My boy," she began tenderly, "have I upset you?"

"No," Robert replied. "It's all a bit unsettling is all."

"Is it the responsibility or something else altogether?" She lowered her voice. "Something you don't want to tell me?"

Robert exhaled through his nose.

"For if it is, _something else_, it's quite satisfactory you know. I have a third cousin, you've never met him, never quite got on with the girls, _if_ you know what I mean…" she finished meaningfully.

"Now you think I'm not the man I seem to be?" Robert bristled. "I can assure you mama that in _that_ department," he cleared his throat, "I am _perfectly_ capable of appreciating a woman…"

She touched his arm. "After all, I do mean that being family trumps all that doesn't it? No matter what may come?"

He shook his head. "If I was not… comfortable… about women, I assure you that I would tell you." He smiled broadly as a very beautiful woman walked past escorted by two smaller versions of herself plus a maid, the mother and daughters all dressed alike.

Violet watched her son survey the trio. "Dear?"

"Yes?" he asked absently, still following the woman with his eyes.

"Don't bother, my boy. She's taken."

Robert chuckled. "I can't say that I ever imagined having quite _this_ sort of conversation with my mother."

"Robert," she looked at her tall son. "Believe me that if you need guidance in such matters. I or your father, no matter how uncomfortable the subject would make us feel, would talk to you about these things. About women and men, of course."

He sighed and looked at his mother, or as the staff called her behind her back, _the wily old fox_. Foxes, being literally hounded by hounds, trapped and snared, shot at, and beleaguered left and right had to be wily, strong, _and_ smart to live to an old age. The Countess was neither ancient nor young, but had weathered many a storm in her life. And, he knew, living with Lord Grantham could be less than a bed of roses at times.

Here was a woman who knew things and people and she had ways of getting information that would put a master spy to shame. Yet she was also caring, kind, and deliberate yet steadfastly supported her family and relatives. Plus Robert knew full well that there were many servants of the estate who come each Christmas Day receive special gifts, all anonymous of course – each being precisely what they needed; be it a new sewing kit, knitting needles or material, or even new shoes, would find that Father Christmas had provided. There was much that she had learned, for a woman, and he wondered how far she would have flown had she not been born into a woman's body. She might have been able to be quite an asset to Downton if not the Empire itself. That thought caused a grin to grow on his face.

"Whatever are you smiling about, son?" Violet asked. "I hope this conversation has not put you off."

"No mama. I was thinking how intelligent you are. I even think that your skills are wasted at Downton and was thinking how you would fare in the House of Lords."

"House of Lords? Now you joke. Women have never served in Parliament! I doubt they ever will! Our opinions are far too scattered to such high office!"

Robert took her arm. "Come. Let's walk. The parks nearby are fabulous and as we go along, I'll tell you about Twain's steamboat America."

"There's those odd ideas again," she swatted him playfully with her fan. "But go on, son. Tell me about the wild Indians, if you must."

Robert laughed. "No wild Indians yet in Twain's narrative, I'm afraid."

"Twain? What sort of a name is that anyway?"

"It's American, mother; an _American_ name."

"Oh," she sniffed. "Perhaps it's best that we let them go? Such a silly thing - a revolution." Her voice fell. "At least they didn't go around chopping off heads like the French! Ghastly! Still gives me the shivers to think of it."

"Let them go? I fear they would argue with your opinion, Countess. And…" he smiled once more, "from what I have read they are a far more civilized people than we give them credit for."

She laughed. "The French or the Americans?"

"Depends, doesn't it?" Robert clasped her elbow as the two entered a hideaway park near the hotel, "on your viewpoint."

Violet harrumphed. "Robert, sometimes you have too much of a forgiving nature. To think those Colonials dumped all that tea into New York harbor! What a waste! See what I'm saying? No sense at all."

"It was Boston. Boston harbor." he sighed. "Don't sell the Colonials short. I fear that we may need them someday."

"Really?" she shook her head. "I'll have to see it to believe it."

Robert embraced her gingerly, knowing that public displays of affection were not her cup of tea. "Now," he began, "on the Mississippi River…"


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter 19 – At Sea - Late July 1887

Cora Levinson held the rail of the steamship _SS Hamburg _as it churned through the deep waves. She faced confidently forward, the wind over the bow trying to whip her hat off, but she felt quite alive that morning. Breakfast had been wonderful, her sleep the last three nights was restful, and her mother had finally consented to let George escort her and her cousin about the decks on their morning and evening walks.

Her cousin Tilly Baker stood near her, her face white and pale and her voice trembled as the ship surged forward. Tilly held tight to the rail, but her stance would tell any passersby she was not happy to be there. "Those waves… I don't like those waves at all. If they were any bigger they might knock the ship right over! Where would we be then? In one of those tiny lifeboats?"

Cora cast a knowing look at George Ackerman knowing full well what was to come. "Tilly, are you unwell?"

Tilly gulped. "Not at all," she said, but her pallor exposed the untruth.

"Oh dear, the erhm, sickness, again?" Cora enquired gently.

"I think I should go lie down," Tilly said as she wiped her sweaty and white brow. "Those grilled sausages at breakfast must have disagreed with me. If you'll excuse me." She left the pair and crept carefully down the Promenade Deck, finally disappearing through a door.

"Poor Tilly," said Cora.

"Do you think we should go check on her?" George asked.

"No. Unless you want to hold her head while she throws up I doubt that either of us can help her. _Mal de mer_. Seasickness." Cora chuckled then shyly lifted her face to George's. "I hope you're not disappointed in me. I'm not being mean. Besides, Janine can help her."

George nodded. "I understand." He looked around and moved three feet to his left and stood right next to Cora. "I quite like the sea."

"Me too." She sighed. "Your first time? On the ocean?"

"Yes."

"But you don't get seasick."

"No," George smiled. "Thought I might. But I don't." He inhaled deeply, smelling Cora's fragrance, which totally overcame the salt air, at least to him. "You either?"

"Nope. Not me. Mama has been unwell too." She sighed. "But if it keeps them out of our hair - both of them – I'm thankful to Poseidon."

George laughed. "First time the sea god has been thanked for mal de mer, I'll bet." He smoothed his hair nor blowing about. He'd abandoned his hat as it tended to blow off and he'd seen too many go over the side on the first day at sea. He looked hard at Cora, her hat firmly pinned to her glorious head of hair. "The air is good." She was dressed in a long dark coat over a pale blue dress which set off her eyes. He examined those eyes every chance her got so he did again.

Core felt George's examination, but chose to not notice. "No seabirds today."

"We're too far out from land," he answered. He cleared his throat. "Cora… I want to say…"

She heard the emotion in his voice and was dearly afraid what he might say. Her mother had been doing everything possible on the train trips from home to New York and even during the brief visit with her Grandmother Marantha, practically insulting him at every turn. That had hurt him, she knew, and though she'd tried to laugh it off with him, her mother had glared at her each time that happened. She decided to mend that fence. "George, since we left home, I know that my mother has been very mean to you. I am so sorry. I apologize for her. You know how she can be."

He shook his head. "Yes, Mrs. Levinson can be…" he stopped and searched for right word.

"Rude?" said Cora.

"I was going to say _impolite_."

"Oh, George!" she laughed. "How polite of you to say just _impolite_!" She took his elbow. "Come let's walk."

George allowed her to turn him especially as this lovely girl was now tucked up against his side as she guided him forward along the teak decking. Her perfume was even more sharply sensed and he felt the swell of her bosom against his arm, which made his heart race. He tugged at his collar.

Cora smiled and she felt her heart race as she held his arm. "I do love this… the walking I mean."

George had shortened his stride, his long legs naturally slowing their pace to match hers. "Uhm… yes, it is nice." Her woman's swaying walk bumped him with a hip from time to time and that too set his heart into a sprint.

They walked slowly past ventilators, lifeboats under davits, and all the bits and bobs of a steamship, with the rolling rushing sea beside. Some passengers were seated on lounges arrayed along the deck, the space wide enough to walk and sit as one wished. Some of those seated read, or napped, or watched the North Atlantic.

"Another three days and we'll be in Paris," she gushed. "I never imagined visiting the city. I hope it's all I imagined."

George didn't want to think about getting ashore as that would likely end the absence of Cousin Tilly as a chaperone plus it would put him back under the scrutiny of Mrs. Levinson. Yet he was emboldened by Mr. Levinson's words.

"Now, George. Don't take any guff from the old bird. And for God's sake don't let on I called her that," Izzy had advised him. "She holds the purse strings but the bank drafts I have given to you allow you some latitude. Don't let her stray off the plan! Right? You can bet she'll come up with all sorts of ideas…" he looked at the blonde man in front of him at their last formal meeting. "And… about the other thing… just be yourself. I trust you George. Bring them all back safe and sound."

They had shaken hands and parted amiably and so the next day George met the party at the train station. Mrs. Levinson, her sister Mrs. Baker, the two girls, Cora and Tilly, plus the maid Janine Bauer stood on the platform surrounded by piles of baggage. George had put on his best face and off they went on the great adventure, trying very hard to let all the barbs and needles that Mrs. Levinson fired bounce off the _trust_ that Izzy had put in him.

Yet this morning, if the Boss knew what George was thinking while walking arm-in-arm with his only daughter, he'd have him horse whipped. Now he felt sweat break out on his brow, even though the air was cool.

"George?" Cora interrupted his fevered thoughts. "Are you in there?" She tapped on his head with a gloved finger.

"Sorry, Cora. I was… thinking about the trip is all."

"Well for goodness sake you looked so far away I felt like I was walking all by myself. Don't do that."

"Of course," he smiled down at her sparkling teeth and flashing eyes. "so," he sighed. "Another circuit of the ship?"

Core pursed her luscious looking lips. "I was reading about Paris and was making a list of the big museums and sights I'd like to see. But of course mother will have her own ideas."

"You do know that she wants to take you to see Worth, right?"

"Yes, but he can't monopolize all my time, can he? He's just a dress maker after all."

George laughed aloud having heard of the flamboyant actions and attitudes of David Worth. He held Cora's arm more than companionably. "We shall see how things go, right?"

Cora laughed. "Right."

An older married couple was seated on lounges and watching the laughing pair go past independently thought that those _newlyweds_ made a very fine couple. So much so that it made them fondly remember their own honeymoon trip twelve years ago. Those happy memories stirred them so much so that they felt an amazing fondness for each other so nine months later their fourth child was born.

Cora and George walked along happily tucked together, blissfully unaware of the stir they were making.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter 20 – Worth's Studio – July 1887

The Countess of Grantham, Violet to friends and family, absolutely blushed when she saw the exquisite gown that Worth had prepared for her. It was so… so… words failed her and her son had to clear his throat to get her attention.

"Mama, do you wish to speak?" Robert asked.

David Worth, the Maestro, turned his smiling face from Violet to Robert. "My creation has taken your mother's breath away, I fear! But have no great concerns, Viscount. It shall be even more magnificent when she wears it!"

Violet shook herself, felling all warm and muzzy for a few seconds. "Oh, my," came out very softly. The dress fitted her nearly perfectly, the lemon silk was quite a pale shade, almost a cream, but in the bright lights of the studio it nearly glowed. The inner lining, also of silk, fitted her shoulder and bodice perfectly, although the bustle seemed a bit high. But the feel of the material, was… was…

"You do like it?" Worth asked, his beret bearing head bobbing up and down, his mustaches quivering. His voice dropped and in _sotto voce_, added. "This often does happen when my clients see their dresses. Sometimes they even faint!" The last addressed to Robert.

Robert cleared his throat once more and Violet awoke from the trance. "Oh, Maestro," she said, words dripping from her tongue, "it's quite… well… how to say it?"

"Erhm, does the Countess like it? If not I shall have it destroyed! At once!" he straightened his back and snapped his fingers. "Pierre! Take this rag," he flung an accusing finger at the dress, "and burn it! As soon as Countess Grantham removes it, of course. Then burn the patterns and the design sketches as well!" He thrust his hands to his temples and peering around Violet proceeded to beat his fists against his head. "Madam! I have erred! This… _rag_… is not fit to be on you! I am only a poor dress maker, and even I, yes I, David Worth, have failed at times." He sighed. "This is _one_ of those times! Rare as it may be! I am undone! I shall throw myself into the Seine in remorse!" Then he fell to his knees in supplication. "Forgive me?"

Violet caught Robert's eye in the wall mirrors and almost laughed aloud. Worth's histrionics had shaken her out of being speechless; the cat firmly having a hold on her tongue. "Mr. Worth! Aren't we going a bit overboard? If every dress maker did as you suggest, there would not clothing in the world and the rivers would absolutely choked with corpses. Enough!"

Robert covered his smirk with a hand, seeing Mr. Worth give him a sly wink. "Mama. I agree. It is a stunning dress, don't you think so Sally?" he said.

His mother's maid, Sally Ames, sat quite still, the horrible vision of seeing the lovely dress burnt to ashes filling her head. "Yes. Yes, it is, Viscount," she managed to squeak out. Suddenly she could not quite catch any air, never actually having spoken to Viscount Downton directly.

"Lovely," said Robert. "Father will be every so pleased." His voice dropped. "Although I fear he'll burst a blood vessel when he gets the bill."

That comment made Sally giggle. She quickly stopped and threw out a, "Sorry, your Ladyship."

Violet caught her maid's eye in the mirror and her lips tightened. "Oh, Robert, Sally has _no_ fashion sense; she's just a maid for heaven's sake!"

Robert cocked his head at the girl, as he appraised the maid's reaction. To her credit she did not greatly react, merely blinked slowly and ducked her head slightly. "I do think you are being too harsh, mother. The girl has a head on her shoulders. She is a woman, and she cares for your wardrobe and your person. Let her speak?" Robert smiled encouragingly at the pretty maid. "Sally, isn't it?"

"Yes, Viscount."

"There," said Robert looking grimly at his frowning mother. "See? She's no mouse or chattel. She even has a name! Go on girl. Tell us what you think. What do you see?"

Sally cast a scared look at Robert, feeling her knees shake at this odd turn of events. She was not very comforted at being thrust into this battle between mother and son and she knew very well that one wrong word or look could get her the sack. "Begging your pardon, your Ladyship, I… I…"

Worth laughed crossed the room and swept the maid into the crook of his arm. "Lady Grantham! Now look what you done! The poor girl has taken a fright!"

Sally's eyes nearly bugged out as she managed to suck in air in tiny sips. She felt perspiration break out over her entire body and the room swam briefly.

Violet rolled her eyes. "Maestro Worth, this… Sally… is in my employ, or rather that of my husband." She sniffed as her voice dripped with sarcasm. "Why don't you bring in a gutter snipe to give an opinion? Likely to be as valuable or useful."

Robert glanced from his mother to the maid – poor thing – and saw that Worth and he had put the poor girl quite out of depth. She knew a bit about cleaning and keeping clothes tidy and something about his mother toilet, but that was about it. "Now mother…"

"Don't you _mother_ me, Robert! You helped to set this thing up. Let the girl speak. Come on girl! Give! Or shall I sack you straight away?"

Robert sprang to his feet and marched to his mother's side. Arrayed in the glorious lemon silk gown he now thought she seemed more an ogre than a Countess. "Mother," he whispered, "there is NO need to do this. Stop, please? You embarrass yourself and me."

Violet took in a lungful of air to put her son in his pace, and the upstart maid, when the studio door was flung open and a wonderful looking dark-haired girl swept into the room.

"Oh!" the girl called out. "I am sorry. They said the Gold studio?" She looked about the room with blue eyes in a pale face and her accent was so very American it might have seemed laughable to some.

One of Worth's minions bustled after her. "No mademoiselle! In correct. I was taking you to the Silver studio. Just next door, if I may…" The man caught Worth's eye. "Excusez-moi, Maestro." Bowing and scraping the functionary gently extracted the girl and the door closed.

No, she was a young woman, Robert corrected himself. Pretty thing, he thought. Her dark hair suited that pale complexion and her stately carriage was well set off by the pale rose gown she wore. He felt his heart thump a bit faster just recalling the woman.

Worth sighed. "Pardon Countess! I cannot get good help nowadays!" He wagged his head. "One thousand apologies, Countess."

"Who was that, Maestro Worth?" Violet asked as she stood in front of the mirrors like a statue.

"A client, Countess. From the United States." Worth waved a hand as if to point far away. "A new client. I have many, from England, France, Germany…"

"Yes," sniffed Violet. "I have heard that you have acquired a few… colonials… in your clientele." She twisted her head to look at her son. "Do you have many, of them?" The tiff over what her maid did or did not think was nearly forgotten in that instant.

"Madame, why discuss that one? Let us return to the matter at hand. This lovely dress. I think it suits you!"

Robert found his head twisting back towards the closed door, where the pretty American girl had just appeared and disappeared in a flash.

"Robert?" asked Violet. "Are you missing something?"

Robert looked at his mother. "No. And I think the new dress is wonderful."

Violet looked at herself in the mirror and liked what she saw. More important Robert had seen something, or rather someone that _he_ liked. "Yes," muttered Violet. "I agree. Wonderful. Most wonderful."

Worth beamed as Sally almost smiled at her Ladyship, while Robert twisted his hands together and looked wistfully at the closed studio door.

**Author's notes:**

**_sotto voce_: Uttering a great truth softly for emphasis. Usually done in a way to almost seem involuntary, especially if the words are offensive shocking.**


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter 21 – The Silver Salon – Paris 1887

Gently, yet firmly, Cora Levinson was pulled from the salon and escorted to the one next door. Her mother scolded her as soon as the door was closed behind them.

"Cora Levinson! This is Paris. France! You can't just go barging through doors!" She tapped her parasol on the floor. "You'll have them thinking we're all a bunch of hicks from the sticks!"

Cora rolled her eyes. They had been in Paris for not even a day and her mother had not let up on her. The nagging and badgering went on and on. If it wasn't _sit up straight_, or _walk slower_, or _quit tossing your head at me young lady_, it was one a hundred other pieces of totally unwelcome advice. No, more like commands. "Yes, mother," she sighed.

Martha looked sharply at her daughter and banged the point of the parasol on the floor once more. "And, please don't sigh so!" She flounced her skirts where she sat on the brocaded couch. "And don't cross your ankles! Keep your feet flat on the floor with your hands folded in your lap. Sit up straighter…"

Thankfully, her mother's diatribe was interrupted by the door opening and two men came wearing well fitted black suits with tails. Their hair was combed to within an inch of its life, and there was not a speck out of place _and_ they wore white gloves.

The second man carried a tray burdened with a covered dish and a stack of towels. The leading man snapped to attention, then bowed gracefully. "Madame Levinson and Mademoiselle Levinson, I welcome you to the House of Worth! Would you like to refresh yourselves?" His voice was strong and English, not the French they had expected. The second man stepped forward, lowered the tray and removed the dish lid, where wisps of stream ushered forth.

Martha's eyes rose in confusion and glanced at her daughter who seemed equally at sea.

"Fresh cloths - hot towels and dry ones to refresh yourselves," the man said. "And the _necessary_, ahem, is just through that door, should the ladies require it."

Martha sat quite still, but Cora rose to the occasion. "Yes, that would be nice." She took a towel and dabbed at her brow, then wiped her hands with a steamed towel, folding it and returning it to the tray. "Thank you."

The man inclined his head and almost clicked his heels.

Martha followed suit, slightly uncomfortable to be wiping her face in the presence of two strange men. Then she spoke. "That will be all."

"Of course, Madame. Mr. Worth shall be here momentarily." The door opened and a tea set was wheeled in by another servant. "Here we have tea, coffee, macaroons, plus orange juice and ice water," the head servant announced. "How may we serve you?"

"Just some water, please," Martha said through a dry throat. Her sources had told her how elegantly Worth treated his clients. She looked about the heavily over-decorated room, where flowered wallpaper in a silver tone was dominated by heavy red velvet drapes over the large windows tied back with silver ropes. The ceiling was nearly the height of a ballroom, and the furniture was massive and scattered about the room, yet artfully placed to draw the eye to a huge mirror on the wall. Banks of gaslights hung on brackets at the side of the mirror above a short platform, two steps high and some six feet across. It was all so Victorian and decadent, something the New York houses tried and failed to emulate. Her mother had done up the front room like this at the Manhattan house and Martha found it to be dark and stuffy. Yet here, the light paper on the walls and the large windows lit the space as inside a lamp.

Cora took a cup of tea as breakfast had been some time ago. She was reaching out to take a small plate of macaroons from the servant when her mother said. "No."

"Oh?"

"Spoil your appetite," her mother whispered in a firm tone. "Crumbs on your dress?"

Core withdrew her empty fingers as the man looked blandly at her, but she caught a trace of a smile form. "I'd better not."

The servant nodded briefly, no doubt deciding how he would tell the story to his fellows of the ever so gauche American mother and her daughter.

"Thank you, though," she told him.

Then the man smiled. "But of course, mademoiselle." The girl reminded him of his own daughter, now living in Nice with her mother and her mother's lover. He sighed at the thought. This girl, clearly an American, was tall, well-shaped and friendly. The servant was certain that the Maestro would fawn all over her. He sighed softly at the memory of his once happy family. He smiled again at the girl and she returned it. So nice. Yes, so nice - like his daughter. His bitter breakup with the girl's mother still rankled_. C'est la vie. _Yet he missed his lovely daughter, so like this child.

To Cora, the servant's voice was so delightfully _French_ and the way he rolled his words sent wonderful shivers down her spine. Paris. France. She was in Paris and everything she thought she knew about anything at all floated away like a child's toy balloon. Paris – the City of Light. They had docked at Southampton, England, were whisked by ferry to the Continent, swooped into one of the many train stations on the special from Dover yesterday afternoon, to the heart of the great city, had slept like the dead.

Then her mother had literally dragged her from the hotel this morning. Not a day to get her wits about her. Not a spare moment with George or even her cousin, who'd been allowed to sleep in. She smiled once more up at the servant who then winked before he state fully left the room.

Martha watched the servants depart and the door close before she spoke and sternly. "Cora! Do not go making friends with the servants. This is not like home, for God's sake! These men are not like Mrs. Potter our cook, or Janine, or Jim! We are in the middle of one of the world's great cities. We are visitors, yes. But we are here at Mr. Worth's salon for a suitable set of clothing for you. Not to make friends with his staff!" She slowed for a few seconds. "I am sorry dear, but we must act…"

"Not like hicks?" asked Cora sarcastically.

Further artful bickering was stopped by the door flying open and a large gentleman, wearing a black beret, a full suit, and a cape of all things, flew into the room.

Cora glanced at her mother and rose, holding out her hand. "Mr. Worth! So nice of you to meet with us! I have heard so much about you!" She walked forward and met the man halfway.

"Mademoiselle Levinson! Enchant'e! It is _my_ honor to meet the daughter of my old friend, your mother, Mrs. Levinson." Worth took Cora's hand gently and covered it with kisses. "My pleasure!" He turned to Martha and repeated the display of affection. "Mrs. Levinson! It is too long. Too long. How long has it been? Bah, not to matter!" His voice was robust and everything he said was almost in a laughing tone. He clearly was enjoying himself. "To what do I owe the honor?" He swept himself into a low bow then straightened. "How may I serve?"

Martha smiled at Worth, as she had been here five years ago for some new gowns. She'd wished to bring Cora then but thought it a bit too early. But now Cora was here and past the first bloom of young womanhood; a shapely girl, lovely, polite, calm, serene at times, who did like the baseball games, drat it! But she had wonderful blue eyes, luscious hair and dimples.

"Maestro Worth! I have brought you my daughter. This is Cora. And we have come for _Haute couture! _Who else would I allow to dress my only child?" Martha went on. "Only for you; I have saved her for you, you know."

Worth smiled at Martha while he rapidly calculated how many dresses he was likely to make from this meeting. Ten or twelve? "Of course, Madame. Now if I may?"

He smoothly guided Cora to the platform under the lights, stopping her to remove her hat, firmly pinned in place. "We must, Mademoiselle, see how your exquisite hair lies on your lovely head." He took her elbow and helped her rise to the platform. "Now let me look. This will not hurt."

Martha said, "And do stand up straight, Cora dear."

Worth sucked in air as he beheld the American girl. No wrong, he corrected himself. No girl – no girl at all. "Par excellence!" he muttered. Many of the English girls he draped were as plain as mud, staring at their feet or posing theatrically. But this young woman, this Cora, she was a beauty. Her striking pale eyes looked right back at him – one of the things he admired about the American women – they were not afraid to look at you. She'd even broken continental convention and came to him to shake his hand! These Americans! So, so, so… wonderful!

Worth circled the girl several times, then pulled out a small notebook and began to make notes. "Mrs. Levinson, you have grown a beauty! I have never…"

He was interrupted by Cora herself. "Thank you. I glad you like what you see."

Worth peered up at the girl. "I apologize, Mademoiselle." He bowed slightly.

"You may call me Cora, if you wish."

Worth liked this – this Cora. She stood tall, seemingly unafraid, not a mouse. "My dear, how tall are you?"

"I am five foot nine inches tall."

Worth looked at this tall vision before him. Oh yes, he whispered inside, this one – this one will be _fifteen_ dresses! It will take every bit of months to make them all. And the delight to be working with such a lovely creature.

Cora looked down at the portly Mr. Worth, whose waistline and full chest showed he liked his meat and drink. His moustaches were waxed and he twirled them once in a while, his eyes closed in thought. Worth put his hands behind himself and walked around her, like some circling beast. He sighed and pursed his lips, his heavy face scrunched up in a funny way.

"So can you do something for her?" asked Martha. "She'll need everything!"

Worth smiled, thinking of all the lovely dollars that this venture would net him. "I shall try, Madame!" He bowed and doffed his silly beret, showing a small bald spot as he did so.

Martha knew that this would cost a huge amount, far more than Izzy dreamed it would. She sighed. It would all be worth it, if her strategy hatched as she planned.

While David Worth and Martha Levinson thought separately about dollars and cents, Cora found herself contrasting the portly Worth with the tall, dark-haired young man next door; the one she'd glimpsed when she invaded the Gold salon by mistake. He had turned his head and his eyes had borne surprise in a pleasant face. What he was doing with the older woman in the horrid yellow dress and the scared looking young woman, she had no idea. She bit her lip and wondered.

"Cora dear," her mother scolded. "Don't bite on your lip."

"Yes, mother," Cora sighed, snapped back to reality by her mother's words.


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22 – Fitting

A tall older woman and a younger one came in and started to measure Cora, after she had shucked out her dress and most of her underpinnings, leaving her in her combination and corset. Cora had quite blushed when the indicated she should even take off her slip. They were in a fitting room, with her mother standing guard at the door.

The young fitter held a notebook and jotted down numbers as the older on plied the fabric tape, making numerous measurements.

"Everything alright in there?" Martha asked. It was all very well for women to be fondling her daughter, albeit with a tape measure, but she knew something about Mr. Worth, so she was naturally cautious, as any mother should be.

Cora was made to stand this way and that, as the two efficient women made her stand in various poses. "I'm doing fine," she said. "Don't worry."

"I'm not worried, Cora. I'm just being… attentive is all." Martha sniffed and pulled the curtain aside.

The taller woman gave her a startled look. "Madame. All is… perfect." Her English was very good and just slightly accented. "The mademoiselle is…" she cleared her throat, "very finely made."

Martha smiled. "Yes, I know."

Cora felt like she wasn't even in the room as this conversation was being held. She might as well be a dressmaker's form, which in some sense she was. She took a long look at herself in the mirrors and did like what she saw. Was this what George Ackerman saw as he looked at her? Or did he just see the boss's daughter? She pursed her lips at the memory of walking arm-in-arm with George on the ship. Never had she been so grateful for seasickness as those days. Janine, her mother's maid, just gave her a conspiratorial wink each time she saw the two of them together.

"Excited?" asked her mother.

"I suppose so," Cora sighed. "Mother, do I _really_ need new dresses?"

"Well, that is a very silly thing to ask. Of course you do! How do you expect to get around in society if you don't?" Martha shook her head in dismay. "Honestly."

"It's not like we don't have dress makers back home."

"In Cincinnati, which is not Paris, the center of fashion." Martha rolled her eyes, swept into the fitting room, and looked squarely at her daughter. "Cora!" she hissed, "There will not just be _dresses_! How do you expect to…"

"To what, mother? To do what?" Cora's eyes flashed with fire. "Or is there some other reason you wish to share with your offspring? Hm?"

Martha had raised Cora to be independent and to have a head on her shoulders, not a silly twit like Cousin Tilly. As much as she thought her niece sweet, she was an absolute empty-headed little fool. Thank God her illicit pregnancy had ended so conveniently! Martha knew that Cora would never, ever, ever, behave like that. Granted it took two people to make a baby but she was quite shocked that her sister had not properly protected her thoughtless daughter. Poor Tilly. But her thoughts swung back to Cora. Cora was smart – ever so smart. "No… No, Cora," she danced about with the truth. "Your father and I wanted to give her quite a gift for your eighteenth birthday, that's all."

Cora nodded then, but flinched as the fitters made her stand up straight as they measured her chest once more poking and prodding. "Oww!"

"Pardon, mademoiselle." The young fitter ducked her head. "Ze corset, isz light boning?"

Cora laughed. "Yes. I don't need, the uhm, really stiff…"

Martha interrupted. "I _am_ glad for that. That you… cut a fine figure without much help."

Cora chuckled at her mother's words. "Thank you mother, for the compliment."

Martha laughed. "Your grandmother looked just like you, you know – tall and slender. Not that she lasted that way. Seemed to have gone to fat after my sister and I got married." She sniffed. "Never let yourself get both _old_ and _fat_, my dear."

"We'll all get old, mother."

"See? Like I said. Are you ladies about done?" Martha snapped at the dress fitters.

"Oui, Madame Levinson." Both fitters barely curtseyed and left the room.

"So do I get dressed, then?" Cora asked.

Martha smiled. "Put on the robe, there." She pointed to a rack. "Mr. Worth will want to, erm, _examine_ you, personally."

"Mother! In my underwear!" Cora's hand flew to her mouth.

"Oh, Cora. Don't you be so prissy. I know very well that you and George were taking long and intimate walks on shipboard." Martha wrinkled her nose at the girl. "I know all about it! And no chaperones, either! Mr. Worth needs to…"

"Examine my body, that it? My God!"

Martha ducked her head. "Don't be embarrassed girl. Just keep your chin up and your wits about you. Mr. Worth is quite the professional. And don't use the name of God, at least in public."

Cora's eyes darted from side to side and any further reaction was stopped when the man himself made himself known by his booming and laughing voice. "Madame and Mademoiselle Levinson, are you ready for me?"

Martha took Cora's hand and dragged her out to the salon, the girl draped in a long crème colored silk robe. "We are, Maestro!" she called out and then whispered to Cora. "Don't embarrass me! Or yourself!" She put and arm around her daughter's slim waist and nearly pushed her along to face the ebullient David Worth who stood there with a wide grin.

000

Lady Grantham tried to keep the pleased look from her face – partly as the dress fitting had gone so well and in part for the thoughtful look her son had ever since the American girl had pushed inside. "So," she said to Sally, "I think that all went very well, don't you?" She looked at the maid who was still white faced in fear. "Please don't answer that my girl. Best to let an old woman natter on to herself."

"You're not old, mama," Robert told her. "Still a fine figure of a woman."

"Thank you my dear. My dear boy." She took his arm. "You do know how to please my heart."

Robert patted her arm. "Is Worth done with you?"

Violet looked up at him. "I don't really know. Oh Sally, we still need to see what he's done for you. I do hope he doesn't make you look too dowdy."

"Little chance of that, mother." Robert chuckled as he looked at the maid as he cleared his throat.

"Oh, my dear," Violet laughed. "He _is_ a genius." Her voice fell. "Wouldn't do if the maid outshone the countess, now would it. Come let's go. Worth's assistant can tell us when we should come back for Sally's dress. Worth didn't tell me, Robert. He rushed out after that new client of his." Violet paused. "Pretty thing, if you like tall dark girls," she paused meaningfully. "If you like girls… from America." She sniffed and turned to catch her son's eye.

Robert knew full well what his mother was doing. Considering that one-half of the human race was female and perhaps one-six of all the women were approximately a proper age for marriage, his mother now felt compelled to point out each and every one. He grunted softly and tightened his grip on her elbow. "May we go now?" That came out tersely.

"If you wish. Come Sally. The Viscount is fatigued. To the hotel I think." The Countess then led the way, sensing that she had been pushing her son.

Robert meekly followed but found himself wondering what was happening in the salon next door and more important, _who_ was in there?

**Author's notes:**

**Combination – A women's undergarment of a camisole with attached drawers which were usually knee or calf length. It was worn as the first layer of clothing, under corsets and petticoats.**


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter 23 – Adventures

For the next four days Cora found herself back at Worth's studio trying on dresses while Worth watched and emoted and now an artist was sketching her as she was posed in various ways, standing, sitting, and reclining on a divan. Finally she burst into a fit of misery. "Mama! I don't want to do this anymore! I am stuck in this stuffy studio of Worth's while Tilly and Aunt Mattie visit museums and parks! Is _this_ what travelling with you is all about!" She flounced across the salon and dropped onto a sofa in a pile of teenage misery. She glared up at her mother and crossed her arms angrily. "Is it? Just shopping?"

Martha sighed. She feared this would happen. She looked hard at the artist, a small dark man with a limp. "Leave us," she commanded and he did. After the door had closed she turned to her upset daughter.

"Tilly keeps telling about the wonderful things they are doing and seeing and _I'm_ just a dress maker's form – a living breathing dummy!" Cora went on almost blubbering now. "I have had enough!"

"My dear, Cora, I am sorry," Martha said softly. "I think that this preparation is so that Mr. Worth can create amazing clothing for you! From gowns to nightwear! It will all be worth it," she finished and hoped to God it was true. "In the end," she whispered to herself.

"Does papa know how many thousands of dollars this will cost? I imagine there won't be a gown he makes that will be less than a hundred dollars! Honestly mother. Can I please be done and see Paris?"

"We leave for Rome tomorrow dear," her mother admonished her. "From there off to Sorrento to see Pompeii. And we'll come back to Paris in two months, when it's cooler." She fanned herself and drank more ice water. "George says it is unusually hot this year, from what he was told."

Cora swept angry eyes over her mother. "And that's another thing…"

The door flew open and one of Worth's efficient assistants entered. "Madame and Mademoiselle Levinson, excusez-moi. The Maestro wishes to say a thousand pardons but he will be unable to attend you this afternoon. However, he has informed me that he believes that he has gathered all the necessary – information – that he requires."

"So we're done?" Martha asked.

"Oui, Madame Levinson." The man smiled. "May we offer you and the mademoiselle luncheon?"

Cora stood. "No thank you. That will be all."

The man inclined his head. "But of course. I do apologize that Monsieur Worth cannot attend you as he is…"

Cora cut him off with a glare. The man bowed slightly and left the room.

"Was that necessary?" her mother asked.

"Yes! Mother, despite how much all this is costing, I'm not at all certain that I like the man. Worth, I mean."

"Dear Cora," Martha walked to the daughter and took her hand. "We're not paying him to be liked. We are paying him to create a beautiful…" she stopped as she had almost blurted out the word _trousseau_ – the wardrobe that a bride takes to her marriage. "A… uhm beautiful set of clothing to make you even more beautiful."

"Oh save it mama! Now you're sounding like Worth and he still gives me the creeps sometimes."

Martha nodded. She gave her daughter an appreciative look. She did have a head on her shoulders as she herself had found that Mr. Worth could be – spirited – with a stray finger or palm while draping a woman's body. Exactly the reason she always stayed close by when these fittings were ongoing. "Yes, well, he is a genius."

"Genius or not, I'd not want him staying in our home." Cora walked to the rack, picked up her hat and started to put it on. "Mother, let us go to lunch and then to the Louvre. All right?"

"Yes, Cora. We shall."

"Good!" Cora smiled at last. "Then I'll feel like I'm finally having an adventure."

000

The rest of that day, and the whole week for that matter, Robert found himself reviewing the momentary glimpse of the American girl. He was still trying to finish _Life on the Mississippi_, but the words just blurred together. He was trying to read a paragraph once again when he felt a poke at his arm.

"Are you in there, Robert?" his mother asked. "You have been in such an awful brown study for some time.

He closed the volume and laid it on the railway couch and stretched. "Just tired mother."

"Mother? Not mama? Oh dear, something _is_ bothering you." Violet said. "Richard what do you think?"

Lord Grantham had joined them two days before in Paris then all together had set out on the long journey to Rome and points south. He lowered his newspaper, _The Times_ of London. "Probably bored. Are you bored son?"

Robert rolled his shoulders. "Perhaps." He stood. "I fancy a smoke." He stepped to the door and then left them.

Violet watched her son go. "Smoke? Since when did our son start to smoke? Has he picked up that filthy habit from you?"

"Brooks," said Richard. "He takes a cigar occasionally. So does Robert, just as I do."

Violet sniffed. "I can smell them on you."

"You never seemed to mind before."

"Lady Yorkmore told me that she had heard that smoking is _bad_ for you - that it congests the lungs and throat. And besides, not everyone appreciates the smell of cigars." Violet sighed. "And her father's footman suffered the most appalling cough for years and years. Poor man; it turned out to be fatal. A heavy smoker I heard tell." She fanned her face. "That is why I do not like there to be smoking in the house, that is, not to excess." She wrinkled up her face. "Besides it smells."

"Vi, if the boy wants to have a cigar once in a while, then no harm done."

She smiled. "You called me Vi? You haven't done that in quite a while!"

Richard daringly patted her knee. "I am sorry that I have not used your pet name for far too long."

"Oh?" Violet said slowly. "Far too long, Richard, I do agree." She sighed and nestled into the crook of his arm which he obligingly put around her shoulders.

Richard smiled. "We are on holiday. Good to get away." He chuckled. "I just wish that we could get things settled with Robert and the Abbey. But I am not totally sure that…"

"But?"

Richard laughed disdainfully. "Robert must feel like he's on the auction block."

"Well isn't he; in a way? Up for sale?" Violet looked up at Richard then stretching her neck, kissed his cheek.

"Whatever is that for?"

Violet raised an eyebrow and looked squarely at him. "You'll figure it out, my dear."

"Oh," Lord Grantham chuckled and kissed her on the lips.

000

Viscount Downton made his way along the carriage, then through the second first class car, stopping at the first class dining car door. He paused between the cars, pulled out a cigar, trimmed and licked down the end then lit it. He gratefully inhaled the sweet smelling smoke, feeling some of the tension drop from his shoulders.

The train rounded a bend and he could see ahead easily. The French countryside was dotted with farms, white cows grazing here and there, with solid looking farmhouses and barns on each high point. Here, just as at home, many of the divisions between fields were dry laid stone. Interspersed with cattle he say wheat, beans, and flax, the various crops so like home. As he sucked on his cigar the dining car door opened and a passenger came out. The man was tall and thin, a ginger with green eyes, dressed in a well fitted suit.

"Mind?" the man asked as he took out a cigarette case.

"No," said Robert and studiously paid attention to his cigar, ignoring the man as he wanted privacy. That girl, or woman, the American. Why would she not leave his head? He didn't even know her name and he seemed to be replaying that ten second experience over and over. She was tall, quite tall. Were all American women that tall? He supposed not. For all he knew the first and last American woman he'd meet and that one was a giantess. Still, he recalled her voice was light and her face pleasing, or better.

"Name's Boyle," the other smoker said. "Kevin Boyle." His voice was high with a touch of Irish.

"Hello," Robert nodded. "Mine's Robert." He looked the man up and down seeing his well-made suit, polished shoes, but one was scuffed, and friendly face.

The ginger man ducked his head. "Sorry. I can see that you want to be alone."

Robert sighed. "That I do. Just, that it's all…" he waved his cigar about. "Sorry. I'm unsettled."

Boyle laughed. "How about a whiskey? They don't have any Bushmill's or Jameson's on this frog train but I know they have a decent Talisker, if that's your style. Let me buy you one?"

Robert stubbed out his cigar in the ashcan provided. "Yes. Yes. I will."

"That's the spirit friend," Boyle said, "might as well enjoy the adventure."

Robert looked at the man and held out his hand. "Name's Crawley."

Boyle shook the offered hand warmly. "Pleased to meetcha'. Now to the malt!"

Robert hoped this new friend could take his mind off a certain female.


	24. Chapter 24

Chapter – 24 - Money

"So, Robert," said Kevin Boyle, "where are you heading?"

Robert swirled the whiskey in his glass before speaking. "My father's school chum is getting married. So we, that is my mother, father, and I, plus servants of course, are going to the south of Naples."

"Lovely!" said Boyle. "This time of year it will be hot, you know. But the land is fine, the women even better, and their wine isn't bad either."

"Can't be much hotter than London or Paris was," said Robert choosing to ignore the other comments about southern Italy.

"Yes. When I was in the States two months back, they were complaining of a cold summer."

"Oh, you travel a lot?" Robert found this stranger very engaging. He'd not yet told him of his family connections, as it might put some off, especially when travelling through France.

"Aye, that I do. Got a start working for me dad, he was in to plumbing and piping – sold from the foundries to big water and sewerage works. When he died, I put the money into importing. I am able to ship finished valves and fixtures from Baltimore and Boston that are literally half the cost – my cost – then mark them up."

"Ah," said Robert sensing that Mr. Boyle was a _new-man_, new to money and manners. "I wouldn't think there would be much call for imported valves."

"Robert my friend, the world is changing, and quickly! There are workshops and foundries all over America. With telegraph, railroads, and steamships I can take an order and in six weeks, sometimes less, I can get whatever you want on the dock in Southampton or Plymouth! There's a nice business for you."

"I see."

Kevin sighed. "And to think that as I do it, I'm putting workers on the dole in jolly old England too. Damn shame."

"You _do_ sound somewhat remorseful." Robert gave the man a level stare.

Boyle looked away for a moment. "Look my friend, it _is_ a damn shame. My grandfather and his father were miners. My dad got out of the pit when that business went into a slump, and it's a good thing as they have literally mountains of iron out in North America, just sitting there for taking! None of that hardscrabble deep shaft work in Wales and Cornwall either. Just mountains of the stuff, waiting to be scooped up!"

Robert curled his lip. "Sounds lovely."

"It is. So I'm making my pile when I can!" he laughed. "Plenty of good jobs over there. Might as well take a cut off the top while I can do it."

Robert found distaste for the man growing stronger. "I _see_."

Boyle drained his glass and signaled for another. "So Crawley, what business are you in?"

That was a good question, Robert knew. "We are in land."

"Land? Aye. I bet there's a good price going on farmland in England, the way the market is down on foodstuffs. A mate of mine is importing wheat from America and making a killing."

Robert started. Father had said the imported wheat had been depleting the family coffers. "Really."

"Oh yeah," Boyle went on. "Seems to me that soon there won't be a stalk of wheat or a potato grown in England. Every bit will come from outside. And them's that get's in on the ground floor," he winked, "they'll be on top and right soon, too."

"Have you considered what happens to those whom you put out of work? There was time that employers cared for their people," he said coldly.

"Employees? Listen my friend, I have exactly three employees. Me, myself, and I. Oh there's an accountant who does my books and a sweet little piece of a secretary that does my correspondence," his voice dropped, "and other things." Boyle picked up his filled whiskey glass. "So here's to me and mine!" he laughed.

Robert looked at the grinning face before him and felt his gorge rise. "You are helping to destroy your country," he said through gritted teeth.

"Naw," Boyle said. "Just making money – lovely money. But you didn't say much about your business. Land you said? Farming too?"

Robert pushed away from the table and stood. He glared down at Boyle and said, "Yes. And our household dates to the eleven hundreds."

"Oh?" Boyle grinned up at him. "I figured you for a _toff_." He held his whiskey out. "So I _was_ right. Well then, here's to you _Mr_. Crawley or is it Lord Crawley?"

Robert wanted to tell the man to go to blazes but knew his words would be wasted. "It's Viscount. The lord is _my_ _father_, _Lord Grantham_. I thank you for the drink." He started to leave and then bent down, his mouth to the man's ear, his good nature rising to the fore. "Our house is Downton Abbey in Yorkshire and we would _never_ treat our tenants with the ill regard that you have so elegantly stated. If _you_ are an example of what _new money_ gives, then God help England, if not the entire world!"

Boyle looked closely up at him and spoke in a mocking tone. "If you hate money so much, why do you need so much of it? I suppose as well that if I just happened to arrive on your doorstep someday…"

Robert sneered. "I am _very_ certain that you would have the dogs set on you, if not worse. Good day."

He had stalked to the door when Boyle called after him. "Crawley!"

Robert stopped and looked back in disdain.

"There's plenty of money out in the world, Crawley, so don't you turn your nose up at it when it arrives at your door!" Boyle cackled.

Knowing further discussion would be fruitless, he left the dining car and the vile Boyle. He stopped on the smoking platform to collect himself. At least, he thought, the repellent man had given him something to think about other than his unproductive hunt for a bride.

000

The train rocked back and forth and Cora found herself falling to sleep, occasionally falling against her cousin who pushed her upright. "Cora! Wake up! Or lean the other way."

Cora yawned and stretched. "Well if you were as tired as I am," she yawned again, "you'd be sleepy too!"

Martha reached across the railway carriage compartment and tapped her daughter on the knee. "Cora dear, don't yawn so. If you must, at least cover your mouth."

Tilly laughed and Cora gave her the benefit of a rude look.

Aunt Mattie chuckled. "Now Martha, must you be so – directive – to Cora? Poor thing all those exhausting days in the stuffy salon and then we scoop her up and throw her on the train to Marseille! Then you go and yell at the poor girl! She must feel like she's in a schoolroom with a harsh teacher."

Martha barked at her younger sister. "I'm _not_ being mean…"

Cora stood. "I need some air." She pried open the door and fled into the corridor. Tilly quickly followed.

"Cora?" Tilly called after her and found her in the women's necessary. "Cora?"

Cora stood at the frosted window, the airflow from the train riffling her hair. "I'm not certain how much longer I can take this Tilly!" She slapped the wall. "And I won't! I just won't! Why does mama have to be so mean?" She stamped a well shod foot for more emphasis.

Tilly gently touched her cousin's shoulder. "Aunt Martha only wants what is best for you." She pulled a linen handkerchief from her bodice. "Here."

Cora sniffed and dried her eyes, for there were real tears on her face. She looked fondly at her cousin and blew her nose. "Why is mama so critical? And why has she made George ride with Janine in Second Class? I never heard of such a thing! She's just being mean, I think."

Tilly twisted a strand of her hair and pursed her lips. "I did hear our mothers talking before we got on the ship and… oh, I'm not sure that I should tell you this."

Cora turned from the wall mounted sink, where she stared at herself in the mirror and tried to repair the damage to her face. "Say what?" her wide eyed look in the mirror fixed her cousin in shock.

"Well… have you thought that perhaps this – trip – is rather more than a trip to museums and so forth?" Tilly's fingers had by now twisted her hair into an untidy mass. "I mean you are eighteen now. Maybe more than just a birthday trip?"

"What has my age got to do with anything?" Cora bristled.

Tilly laughed at her cousin. "Well what do you think? And why has George Ackerman been seemingly banished? He's a man, Cora!"

"Silly! Of course, George is a man, and I'm…" Cora's face fell and she brushed at her dress, starting at the shoulder. "You mean?"

Tilly tittered in glee. "Cora… I heard our mother's talking, like I said… and they were saying, well, Aunt Martha was talking at least, I'm pretty sure I heard her say that she hoped that this…"

"Well what? Give?"

"Well… I'm pretty sure I heard that Aunt Martha say that now that you are _eligible_, she was hoping that _buying_ you a husband, wouldn't cost too much _money_!"


	25. Chapter 25

Chapter 25 – Duty

Robert returned to his parent's compartment and found them holding hands, which they abruptly released. He cleared his throat. "Sorry, smoking makes me cough."

Violet craftily straightened her skirt where Richard's hand had been roaming. "Is it too much to ask to knock, son?" She pursed her lips. "Or have you forgotten good manners?"

"Sorry, mama. I just had the most frightful discussion with an Irishman about money. _Another_ bloody _capitalist_ hell-bent on tearing everything apart and all for money! Damn them all!" He paused. "Please excuse me father; mother. I was upset." He picked up his book and was soon immersed in river life. He started Chapter 30.

_IT was a big river, below Memphis; banks brimming full, everywhere, and very frequently more than full, the waters pouring out over the land, flooding the woods and fields for miles into the interior; and in places, to a depth of fifteen feet; signs, all about, of men's hard work gone to ruin, and all to be done over again, with straitened means and a weakened courage. A melancholy picture, and a continuous one; - hundreds of miles of it. Sometimes the beacon lights stood in water three feet deep, in the edge of dense forests which extended for miles without farm, wood-yard, clearing, or break of any kind; which meant that the keeper of the light must come in a skiff a great distance to discharge his trust, - and often in desperate weather. Yet I was told that the work is faithfully performed, in all weathers; and not always by men, sometimes by women, if the man is sick or absent. The Government furnishes oil, and pays ten or fifteen dollars a month for the lighting and tending. A Government boat distributes oil and pays wages once a month._

"Back to _that_ book I see," muttered Richard. "Have you given any thought to whom, ahem, I mean, which, erhm, girl…" His voice failed.

Violet sighed. Must she always do the nasty parts? Her elbow jabbed Richard and he went on.

"What I mean, Downton, is have you thought about actively looking for someone to… marry?" Richard asked. "There any number of your friends who have sisters or cousins, school mates and so forth, who know…"

"Oh for God's sake, Richard!" Violet hissed. "Must you beat about the bush?" She opened a handbag and extracted a sheaf of papers. Then brandishing them at her son like a sword, she went on more civilly. "Your father and I have put together this list… do look at it."

Robert snapped his book closed. Feeling rather like one of Twain's beleaguered light keepers on the flooded river, took in a great lungful to do his duty. "Right."

Violet looked sharply at her husband and seeing no support for her actions rushed forward. "I have tried to sort these into some sensible order. Each of these ladies has a position, come from good families, and..."

"Have money?" blurted out her son.

"There is that, as well," Violet replied. "Do look at the list. You know some of them."

Robert took the stack of paper and wished it was a straight razor so he might slit his wrists and end this interminable game. His parents were desperate, he knew that for the money situation was dire! What he knew about matters of running the estate was small, yet his father had been showing the accounts to him then now and again. The family had stood firm for hundreds of years and was it all to go to wrack and ruin because he might fail in his duty?

He knew about duty. It had been pounded into him at school. Britain was built on duty. Admiral Nelson at Trafalgar, Cardigan leading the Light Brigade into hellish artillery fire in the Crimea, Cornwallis bravely surrendering to the bloody Colonials at Yorktown – they knew duty. They knew fire and shot, drawn sabers and spears. In Zululand the redcoats had been chopped to pieces, yet they held in the Natal and prevailed at Ulundi in 1879.

He sighed. Those men and boys had sacrificed; all of them. He was being offered a far less gruesome duty – that of the marriage bed to someone whom he might not know and perhaps would even dislike – but who had _money_. Mammon. He_ preferred_ not to worship the god of money and wealth. Rather he wished to skirt the monster and survive the encounter, hopefully with his principles somewhat upheld.

His father looked at him grumpily. "I could simply order you to marry, you know and you would."

Robert nodded. "But you wouldn't, would you?"

"No," said Richard. He reached across the compartment and tapped the sheets written in mother's fine hand. "Now read, boy," he said not unkindly.

The first name leapt off the page. "Honoria Casting - Dumpford? You're not serious?"

"She is tall and stately. Her family is a very old one…"

"Old yes, mama! She must be all of thirty."

Violet pursed her lips. "She's twenty eight, if you must know."

Robert's face fell. "And has the neck of a giraffe. And who's this next one?"

Violet crossed her arms. "That would be Lady Mims. Widowed at an early age. No children, lovely properties."

"And is shorter than her girth," he said sourly.

"She is simply big-boned, Robert. Her house in Exeter is simply fabulous…"

Robert sniffed and turned the pages. "Lydia Bamford? Blind as a bloody bat!"

Violet bristled. "You _have_ met."

"Rather squeaky voice, if you must know. Hurt my ears when she did speak. Good dancer though. A blonde too."

Richard glanced at his wife as he knew letting the boy see this list was a mistake. He smirked. "So who would you have? Someone you don't know? Someone your mother and I know nothing of? Not in society?"

Robert fell silent as he read on. He knew most of these girls. They ran the gamut. Cold and aloof to chattering nincompoops. Their appearance, as far as he recalled was just as varied. Some were – pleasant – to look at; others not so much. There were one or two he had been almost sweet on for a time. "I see you've put Sir Julian Ward's daughter here."

Violet brightened. "Yes. I did. You know her, danced three times at her mother's ball last year, when she came out. Lovely girl, even though her father is not of the gentry."

Robert remembered Lucasta Ward as a charming and delicate creature, all of five feet tall. She had glorious hair, long eyelashes over green eyes, and carried herself with a bird-like stance as she danced. Yes, by God, he did remember her and quite well. She had lured him into the garden on a pretext and had kissed him soundly behind a hedge. He had been quite shocked. Yes it was delightful, for all the mere seconds it had lasted. She had smelled of rosewater and powder and his shock at her forwardness had quite taken him back. "So why is she last on the list?" he asked.

Violet looked away. "Her family has money, but there _are_ stories. You know the sort."

"Mother, are we now to deal in rumors and innuendos in this quest?'

"Robert, unless you wish to be dogged by scandal, you had better listen at least once to those sorts of stories. I had it on somewhat good authority, that although Julian may have been knighted, since the girl's mother is now dead, that he has been hard pressed to… control… the girl."

"So why is her name here?" Robert thundered.

"Robert, the girl will inherit nearly five millions Pounds and Sir Julian is not in good health, or so my sources tell me. It was amazing what one can hear when your ladies' maid has her own sources of research," his mother finished firmly. "Lucasta will be twenty in a few months' time and her father may not have that much time left."

"Available in other words?" sniffed Robert.

"Just as _you_ are, son," said Violet with some finality. "And with her mother gone… well you'd have no back biting mother-in-law puttering about the grounds, now would you? And perhaps no father-in-law either?"

Robert sighed. He felt flood waters rising from his waist and now up to his neck. He took a deep breath of air. "I suppose…"

"Yes?" asked his father who had remained mostly silent 'til now.

Robert thought of those far off light keepers struggling along the river in flood to save boats and property from going aground. He feared that he must do his duty, such as it was. "We could…"

"Yes?" asked his mother.

Robert ducked his head. Life, like a river, was full of twists and turns; rapids, snags, and sandbars. He hoped this was no whirlpool to suck him down to be drowned. "Arrange a visit, would you?"

Violet relaxed and she smiled. "I shall post a letter, then." She rose, leaned over and kissed his head. "Thank you, Robert. You are a good boy. I always knew it."

Robert nodded, but when he should have thought of the somewhat rash and petite Lucasta Ward, for some very strange reason thought of the tall American girl that he had glimpsed in Paris.


	26. Chapter 26

Chapter 26 - Warfare

Cora returned to the family's First Class compartment after sending her stupid cousin back ahead of her. By the time Cora sat down on the padded bench facing her mother, she had managed to swallow her external anger and maintain a rigid demeanor.

Martha looked hard at Cora when she returned but held her tongue for once. She sensed that Cora and Tilly had spoken of something quite upsetting when they were gone, since Tilly sat in the corner dabbing at a weepy eye with a kerchief.

Matilda took one look at her daughter. "Oh dear," she said. "Whatever is wrong?"

"Noth… nothing," stammered Tilly.

"Must be something."

Tilly swung a scared looking eye to her mother then to her cousin. "No. I just…"

"Tilly got something in her eye," said Cora. "Isn't that right, cousin dear?" She had forced Tilly to keep her silly mouth shut, threatening all sorts of bodily harm if she did not. "The dust you spoke of?"

"That's right," Tilly blurted out then turned to the wall.

Matilda crossed her arms. "Is that true, my dear?"

"Leave me alone, all of you!" Tilly blurted out. "It is…" she sniffed, "just my woman's trouble is all."

"Ah," answered Matilda. "I thought so."

Tilly nodded slowly. "That's all," she said unconvincingly.

Martha tapped her sister's arm. "Aren't we women lucky to have something to blame our moodiness on?" She sighed. "Men never have these problems, now do they?"

Cora turned and stared out the window. Living in such close proximity to her mother, aunt, and sister for a few months, she too was having her time, as she had observed that females tended to synchronize such things. It was all rather mysterious, she knew, yet blaming the feelings of her mind on her body's actions she refused to do. She watched trees; a narrow valley and rushing river, farm fields and cows fly past the train. The flashing of the images, all sunlight and shadow, calmed the fire she felt in her head, yet her jaw was tight and knew the tension was telegraphed into her face.

Martha craned her neck and peered at Cora. "Are you well, dear?"

Cora ignored her mother.

"Cora? I am speaking to you."

"I heard you mother."

"Well, then… what is it?"

"It?"

"What is wrong?"

"_Nothing_ is wrong," Cora answered through gritted teeth. Then she relaxed. "Mother… let me be, please?" That's what came out, but what she thought was something entirely different. She would have liked to scream at Martha. No, she knew that wasn't correct; more like voice her disappointment in measured tones.

Did her mother think she was just a bag of flesh to be auctioned off like a prize cow? Cow was an unfortunate image, as cows seemed to be valued only for their milk and meat; and their ability to have calves. They also tended to be rather heavy animals, and at the moment, since it was her time of the month, she felt fat, torpid, and bloated. Her corset dug deeply into her ribs since it was laced too tightly, and with every breath she could not quite get a full one. She squirmed in the unyielding confines. Surely there must be another way to hold up the bosom and define the waist?

Martha heard the ice in her daughter's tone and was about to probe more when he sister touched her elbow. "Sister… tell me about our plans for Rome?" She saw Matilda's wink and she caught the message, which she read as _Let the girl be!_

Martha cast an annoyed look to her younger sister. "In Rome, we spend three nights, then we take the train to Naples, and then down the coast to Sorrento. Ackerman has done a nice job on the itinerary."

Cora shifted only the direction of her eyes from outside the train to her mother as fire flashed through her head. "Mother," she hissed in a low and menacing tone, "He has a first name. It's George – _George_. And he's not some _dog_ you can order about, which sometimes I believe that you think is the class that almost everyone else is in. Except for you, of course." Cora had kept her words as low and flat as possible, but they had struck home, like a bullet as Martha's eye widened in shock. "And," she shifted her trim body and faced her mother directly, "and I quite like George – like an awful lot, just so you know."

Martha recoiled in horror. "Cora! No matter what your _father_ may think of the man, he is simply an employee! And you can't – you can't like the man! Or even consider such a thing!"

Cora knew that the very next words she spoke would be a declaration of open conflict – worse _warfare; a line in the sand; throwing down the gauntlet _– between them, but she said them anyway. "Oh? And _who_ will stop me, mother? YOU?"

Further exchanges between daughter and mother Levinson were cut off by a small moan of escaping air, as Tilly slid from the couch in a dead faint, her head making a loud thunk as it impacted the railway carriage floor.


	27. Chapter 27

Chapter 27 – An Act

The conductor was called and a carriage steward as well, so after application of cold towels, Cousin Tilly was brought back to consciousness.

Cora rolled her eyes at the histrionics of her aunt and mother as her cousin was brought back to full awareness by an application of smelling salts. Tilly was frequently out cold on the floor, a sofa, or a lounge. Her specialty was a swoon on the steps of building, especially on hot days, but Cora had never seen her faint on a train.

"Dear! Oh my dear!" shouted Aunt Mattie throughout the subsequent first aid.

Finally Tilly responded and opened a bleary eye. "What happened?" the girl asked.

"Mademoiselle, you appear to have collapsed!" said the steward in passable English.

Martha harrumphed at the man. "At least some one in the country speaks English," she muttered next.

The steward recoiled. "Madame! Excuse moi! Perhaps I did not hear you, er, correctly?" the man bristled.

"Oh, mother!" Cora heard herself say testily. "Mama is…"

The man turned to her with liquid and expressive eyes. "Oui. My mozzer, she is…" he cleared his throat and stopped when the conductor nudged him. "Pardon."

Cora smiled and the man smiled back. He was young, with dark hair and long fingers that had carefully tended to Tilly. Cora briefly touched his hand. "Merci, monsieur."

The steward and conductor carefully sat Tilly upright just as a doctor arrived, one of the passengers. A Herr Doctor Gottschalk, bustled in and switching from French to English and back again, approved of their aid, asked Tilly if she had eaten and felt her brow. "No fever, I believe." The doctor opened his bag and examined her.

Martha peered closely at her niece. "Was it the crab she had for lunch? Makes me allergic. I had the Sole instead."

"Yes, madame," muttered the doctor. "If I may?" he waved a hand.

"Do as you will. I'm not the girl's mother," Martha sniffed.

Mattie pressed Tilly's hand. "A faint is all?"

Cora stood up amid the mess in the now crowded compartment. "Mother, shall we get out of the way and give them room?" She tugged at Martha's elbow. "Let's get some air."

Martha looked at her sister. "You shall be fine?"

Mattie nodded assent so the Cincinnati Levinson's left the room and traipsed to the dining car. Cora felt her temper raising once more, no, she thought, not temper – more irritation. Martha was known to boss everyone about, from porters to presidents. Hadn't she informed President Cleveland that she disapproved of his veto of the Texas Seed Bill in February of this year? Claiming that it would create more orphans, she had upbraided the man at a reception in a downtown Cincinnati hotel. Cora had felt very privileged to be included, but was aghast when her mother verbally attacked the president.

The president and harrumphed and stared at his shoes, then launched into his stance about government powers, but Martha had cut him short. Isidore stood there just as shocked as Cora as he forced a smile.

"Grover!" Martha started to say, "If you were down on the farm, and the drought had ruined your crop, just as it did last season in Texas, and your children were now going _hungry_, wouldn't you want the government to step in?"

Isidore had pulled his wife back and tried to make an excuse to the first Democratic President since before the War.

Martha had elbowed her husband aside and spoke up. "You see, Mr. President, when people are suffering, they do not need to be hammered on the head about rules and regulations!" Then she smiled sweetly. "Mr. President," she then purred, "I am personally involved in the _Ladies Drought Relief Agency_. So I ask you, how much would you like to contribute to our fund?"

Isidore had looked like he was about to burst, but the President laughed and pulled out his check book and a pen.

Martha smiled sweetly as the check was signed. "Thank you sir. You may be assured that I shall consider voting for you I the next election."

That brought a laugh from the receiving line dignitaries while Isidore's ears turn red, almost as red as Cora's face.

Cora recalled all that as she allowed herself to be seated by the dining steward while she forced a smile at her mother, now seated directly across from her – the woman who had wheedled a check for five hundred dollars from the President of the United States. She sighed and her mother looked at her with interest. Cora tried to put on her best face, but she knew it was only an act.

Martha settled herself. "Now Cora. Whatever is on your mind?" She folded her gloved hands and smiled sweetly, but her daughter flinched at the sight.

"Mother… now about this trip…" Cora hesitated as she saw a fair-haired man come into the dining car and for an instant thought she had seen him before.

000

Robert left the compartment, his head buzzing with issues. The Abbey, his parent's obvious amorous attitude, and the list of brides or potential brides.

_Lucasta Ward_, the name buzzed in his brain too. Lucasta Ward of the soft lips and the pert bosoms, which she had so generously pressed against arm, and the darting tongue that had flowed from those lips to his own. He could even remember her perfume and the flowers blooming on the spirea bushes.

He wanted a drink, or coffee, or anything to else to focus on. He charged down the dining room as he brushed aside the steward who tried to seat him. The train dashed under an overhead trestle and the car was darkened briefly as he surged down the aisle. The car was swaying and he almost stumbled against two women, one older, and the other younger and pretty who were seated to the right of the aisle. "Excusez-moi," he whispered and passed on, marching through the car.

Cora sat there stunned for a moment then craned her head to look at his retreating back.

"Cora?"

Cora looked after the man, feeling that she had seen him before. "Who was that?"

"Who was who?" Martha inquired.

"That man who just went by."

Martha reached over and took her daughter's chin and forcefully rotated the pretty head and neck to face her. "Now, my girl! Will you please explain your rude behavior back there? Before Tilly pulled the fainting act? Just what are you so upset about?"

**Author's Notes:**

**Downton Abbey Series 3 Episode 1 revealed that Martha "eats no crab" and also has a penchant for goat's milk, according to Reed, her maid (at least in 1920!).**

**President Grover Cleveland, the 22nd President of the United States of America, did veto the Texas Seed Act in February 1887. I am unsure if he visited the city of Cincinnati that year.**


	28. Chapter 28

Chapter 28 – A Little Force

Cora sighed and sighed again.

"Oh," said her mother. "So it's to be the sighing act?"

Cora squeezed her eyes closed for a moment then they flew open as she felt hot blood rush to her face and her head seemed to explode. "Mother!" she shouted.

"Cora! I will not have you acting like this! At least not in public," hissed Martha. A gloved hand reached across the table and took her daughter's ungloved one. "Now… will you talk to me?"

The 19-year-old sighed and looked away then abruptly turned to face her mother. "I know what… THIS is all about!"

"Not so loud, for criminy's sake!"

Cora was startled as she had never heard her mother use such language. "Well… I…"

"You're wondering why I dragged you all the way across the ocean? That it?"

"Uhm… I had wondered," Cora muttered, not about to believe a word her mother told her.

Martha sighed. "It's all your aunt's fault."

"What? Aunt Mattie? What's _she_ done?"

"It's not what she's done, dear Cora, it's what she didn't do!"

"And what would that be?"

Martha took both her daughter's hands firmly. "Now Cora…" she started and her voice fell into a whisper, "this is _not_ for public consumption – by anyone! Not to a soul – _not ever_!"

Cora rolled her eyes at her mother, prepared to hear a bald faced lie.

Martha's voice continued, and fortunately the train rumbled over an especially bad section of track just then, for if anyone else in the dining car had heard the tale, and spoke English, they would have been quite shocked.

000

Robert stumbled out of the dining carriage and found himself in the bar cum lounge once more. Kevin Boyle, the rude Irishman capitalist, sat exactly where Robert had left the man. But now he was berating the other passengers in a drunken rage. Boyle looked up at him while lifting a glass of whiskey. "So, Lordy Downton! Back for more, I see!" He slammed the glass down spilling amber liquid across the polished mahogany table.

It was obvious to all in the car that Boyle was drunk – more than drunk – and they all could tell he was a very _mean_ drunk.

"Does your lawdship want me to fall on me face and lick your dirty boots, like the rest of my downtrodden countrymen?" Boyle asked belligerently and quaffed more whiskey.

Robert started to turn away from the offensive man.

"Oh no! Don't you go rushing off!" Boyle shouted and tried to stand. "I ought to…"

Downton turned back to Boyle and pushed him back into his seat with a gentle shove. "Sit down Boyle."

"You… bastard…" spluttered Boyle and followed up with more words of meanness and dreadful spite.

Robert bent his neck and put his mouth inches from Boyle's. "Now…" he spoke very softly but with an increasing edge to his tone, "I want you to listen and listen _very_ carefully. I notice that after drinking the whiskey I paid for, you have proceeded to drink even more, hopefully paid from your own _capitalist_ pocketbook." He turned his head and saw the barman heft a short club and hold it out meaningfully.

Boyle tried to rise but Robert pushed him back once more while the man's face grew red with spittle frothing his lips.

"Boyle. Listen to me. I have no quarrel with you, per se, but I suspect that man over there behind the bar," he nodded to the bar keep, "would like nothing better than to bash your face in and throw you off the train. _I_ have been insulted by you and am _willing_ it pass." He sighed. "Or should I stand aside and let the Frenchman bash your ugly and lower-class head in?"

Boyle threw his whiskey into Robert's face.

The future Lord wiped the stinging liquid away. "Look old boy, you may think that I am an old crocodile that is only suited to be boxed and buried." He took a handful of Boyle's shirt in his hands and dragged him upright. "Now, Mr. Boyle," he spat to the side. "I _should_ punch your lights out. I might be an aristocrat, but you should not presume that I do NOT know how to brawl."

"I'd like to see you try," Boyle spat fully into Robert's face.

Robert sighed sadly. "I was afraid you'd do that." Then he threw a right cross at Boyle's chin which connected beautifully and the sneering face fell senseless to the floor.

The door at the end of carriage flew open just then and the Conductor and a beefy steward entered to scattered applause.

Robert dabbed at the broken skin of his knuckle. "Right." He shot his cuffs and walked from the carriage. "Sorry about the mess," he said to the barman and dropped a few francs on the counter.

The man smiled and put down his cudgel. "Oui, messier. Merci beaucoup. Magnifique!"


	29. Chapter 29

Chapter 29 - Oh the Shock

Cora felt her face grow hot, and at the same time as she listened to her mother's whispered voice, certain other parts of her body felt _strange_ - rather hot and full. She shook her head to clear it. "And this, ahem, affects me how?"

Martha sighed. "Do I have to spell it out for you?" she hissed.

"Yesss," Cora hissed back. "I still don't understand what my aunt did that was so horrible."

Martha bit her lip, wrung her hands, then rose and crossed to the other side of the table and seated herself next to her daughter. "My dear… I really don't know how to say it, so I'll just say it. Will that be alright?"

Cora rolled her eyes. "Go on then."

Her mother dropped her mouth towards her ear, put a gloved hand on hers and started speaking. "Dear daughter. I'm sure you know that… well men are different from women."

Cora turned offended eyes to her. "You must be joking. I had _no_ idea," she finished sarcastically.

"Not only in temperament, but in… certain other ways…" Martha pressed on. "They, have appetites…" She twisted her daughter's hand painfully, not quite knowing how to proceed.

"Motherrr; yesss of course. They are more childlike in that way, aren't they? Smoking and drinking…"

"Shush! Now listen and listen well my girl, I had hoped that this would never have to be whispered into your pretty head, but…"

"Now you'll tell me that men want… well… to, ahem," Cora paused.

"How much do you know?"

Cora met her mother's frightened and astonished eyes. "Mother! I'm no baby. And speaking of babies, I know about that. I was there when cook's cat had her kittens. Poor little thing mewling and meowing, like she was in pain."

Martha started. "I'm not saying you are a child, dear. But men, especially boys, can be rather… uhm…" she coughed, "and when they get an idea… about a girl…"

Cora stared out the window, feeling those odd sensations once more. "To chase a girl you mean."

Martha sighed again. How much need she tell her daughter? Innocence was fine, up to a point, but given her niece Tilly and what befell her she had to go on. She turned her head and only seeing a steward and French at that clearing a table at the far end of the carriage, felt it was safe. "Your aunt allowed your cousin Tilly to be, that is _to go_, well, out with a man, with no chaperone."

"Oh mother, you act like it's when you were a girl! It's almost 1890! In ten years it will nearly be a new century! Must you be so old-fashioned?"

Martha squeezed Cora's hand tightly. "Now listen and listen well! Your lovely aunt, my dolt of a sister, allowed Tilly to get into a…"

"A carriage? And no chaperone? Mother I am absolutely scandalized! What will they say in Hyde Park or in Boston? Shocked." Cora tittered softly. "Next you'll tell me that she got in the family way!"

Martha felt her face grow hot and her heart leap into her throat. "Yes," she muttered, hardly audibly.

Cora's mouth fell open. "What's that?"

Martha could not speak, only sat there and dumbly nodded.

"You mean she… erh… is…" Cora's eyes flew open and her lower jaw stretched even further towards the center of the Earth.

Martha regarded her daughter, innocent only child of her loins, recoiling in shock at the family scandal. She gently reached out and lifting her gaping jaw made it close. "What you have discerned, dear daughter is true. But the verb is _was_, not _is_."

Cora now felt the world seem to spin, tilt some degrees, then slowly settle back onto a nearly even keel. "You're saying," she shook her head, gulped, and felt a hot tear streak down a cheek, "- but she's not - even engaged! Surely there must be some arrangement… with the boy?"

"No," said Martha very softly. "She was _that way_, but now she is not. Not anymore. She lost the baby. Fortunately. And no, there was no _arrangement_, as you say, with the boy."

"But… oh my God! Then she…" Cora squirmed as her stomach heaved and she broke into a cold sweat. "She… she…" Core felt her face grow wet behind her veil and brushed at the tears that were leaking out as well as the perspiration on her forehead.

Martha put an arm around Cora and pulled her heard towards her shoulder. She felt the tension of her daughter change in an instant to a violent tremor. "I know this is shocking, Cora. That is why Aunt Mattie and Cousin Tilly came to Cincinnati. The gossips of Boston and New York had done a very good job spreading this juicy suspision."

"But… but… how did she? I mean, why _did_ she?"

Martha patted her daughter's shaking back. "Cora, dear daughter, I said that men have appetites. Well," she sighed and then said softly, "so do women, especially young women. Not all, but some… and you do know that Cousin Tilly is not very smart."

"So you're saying that she…" a gasp came out, "wanted to… want…"

"I can't say, but your Aunt told me that there was liquor involved. I'm quite certain that your cousin had no idea what was happening. She still thinks she had a bought of influenza."

"But, but won't Uncle Frank do something?" Cora said tremulously. "He _will_ do something, right? For someone to … take _advantage_ of her? Tell me he will!"

Martha looked away. "No, Cora. Uncle Frank will never hear of it, and you will never speak of it and not to me, or to Tilly, or to your Aunt."

"Then why tell me?"

Martha nodded her head in agreement. "Fair enough. I owe you that. If those old-biddies in Boston think that you, or I, or your father, Heaven forbid would condone such a thing…" she coughed, "there's no telling the damage that could be done! So Your Aunt and I thought that a little European trip would let things - cool off - as the smart set says." She said this with absolute conviction but was withholding some truth - a truth that no one else knew, yet.

Cora wiped at her eyes. "Does Papa know?"

"No, and he must never. Promise?"

Cora sat dumbfounded, resting her head on her mother's shoulder. "Why Mama? Why must we women suffer so?" Then her tears started once more.

Martha could only whisper into Cora's ear as the girl cried softly. "I do not know."


	30. Chapter 30

_**Downton Abbey**_**, and its characters, people, and situations are owned by Carnival Films and Masterpiece Theater. The following story is purely for entertainment purposes.**

Chapter 31 - Meets the Eye

Robert stalked the length of the train from first class car to the caboose then back again and finally poked his head into the second-class compartment where his father's valet sat, along with Sally Ames, and two strangers. "I say, Vance, have a moment?"

Vance shot upright, jumped to his feet and buttoned up his jacket which he had loosened. "Sorry, Viscount. Just naffing off." His hand shot to his mouth. "Downton, I do apologize."

Robert smiled. "It's alright. Would you…" he cocked his head towards the corridor. "I just need you for a moment." He pushed his hair back from his forehead and gazed at Ames the maid. Pretty little thing, and with a head on her shoulders too, or so he'd heard. "How's the train passage back here?" he asked.

"Quite fine, sir" the girl replied rapidly leaping to her feet. "Tiring though."

He smiled at her. "I think we'll be staying overnight in Nice. Get a bit of a rest."

The girl nodded, further speech strangled in the throat, as this was nearly the first time that Downton had spoken to her.

Vance edged the young gentlemen into the corridor, finding it very improper to have the Viscount speaking so casually to the help, especially his mother's second lady's maid. He sniffed, "If we might…"

"Of course," Robert pulled his head back into the corridor after Vance slid the door closed behind them.

"How may I be of service?" asked the valet.

Robert regarded Vance, knowing that he had been his father's valet for five years, yet he hardly knew the man. The valet was tall, as befitting a valet, with a long nose, and thinning black hair. His pale gray eyes had that sort of transparent quality that made him seem almost invisible, as most of the staff was treated as being so. He stood upright and stiff before him on the swaying train and given what Robert was to ask decided to treat the man humanely. "Vance, is that your actual last name?"

"No Viscount. My full name is Vance Michael Edwards. But seeing we have both an Edward and a Michael at Downton Abbey, uhm, well it would be quite confusing to have an Edward and an Edwards…"

"So father so fit to change it."

"Not exactly, young sir. It was Lady Crawley who suggested it."

Robert grinned at him uncomfortably as changing staff names at the whim of their masters was common. But still, it smacked to him of the Raj in India. "Yes… sorry, but I need help with this," he held out his right hand where two of the knuckles were actively bleeding. "I dabbed at it with my handkerchief. You can see the result."

The man sucked in air. "Nasty. If the young sir would go to the first class lavatory, I shall be there directly."

"Well, I was hoping that you might fix me up back here. Dashed awkward to explain… father would be…" he shrugged.

The man stood straighter. "I see sir. Let me just get the shaving things, sir." He excused himself and went back into the compartment while Robert forlornly walked down the carriage.

In less than two minutes, Vance was washing the wounds. "Does that sting, sir?"

Robert winged. "Yes… a bit." He sucked in air.

Vance dabbed at it with towel. "Let's apply pressure for a few moments."

Robert was sitting on the toilet and he gazed about the wooden walls of the stall. "No marble back here, is there?" The first-class lavatory was quite beautiful but in here the room merely served a purpose, nothing more.

Vance inclined his head and exposed the wounds to the air, seeing that they were now merely seeping. "Good. Coagulating, I think is the word. I'll just sprinkle some sulfate on it." He produced a small jar holding a powder from the shaving kit and did the deed. The two men watched as the astringent material did the trick.

Robert winced but held still. "Fine, then. Thank you."

Vance looked further at the hand he held and saw bruising.

Robert squirmed under his inspection. "A door."

"Of course, sir." Vance was no idiot for he knew what the bruise caused from landing a punch looked like. He had been a young lad in service and had seen such marks many times. Slapping produced a broad and flat mark, more red, this was a deeper bruise, only being caused by a solid punch.

"A rather large and red-headed belligerent door." Robert looked up at the valet. "Our secret."

Vance did all he could not to smile. "Sir. These doors can be quite… insulting, especially in a foreign country," he sniffed, "such as this one, if you don't mind my saying so, sir."

"Well it wasn't a frog, if that's what you think." Robert blinked. "An insulting, loud-mouthed American. Had the temerity to suggest that houses such as Downton practically held our people as slaves and that we should be sold up and be gone."

Vance nodded and reexamined the hand he held then applied a sticking plaster to both knuckles. "Colonials," he sniffed.

Robert looked at Vance and knew that the valet, like most of the house staff, was a repository of secrets and confidences of the household. "Just do not tell my mother."

Vance ducked his head and stifled a smile. "Yes. Mums can be…" he stopped himself as this was getting far too familiar. "Sir."

Robert rose, dusted off his trousers and extended his hand. "I'll take your hand, if you'll give it."

Vance had seen nearly everything there was to see at Downton Abbey. He knew, for instance the bickering of upstairs and down, the whispered gossip of the backstairs, who on staff was to be trusted and not, even when the Lord and Lady had been amorous, but this? Downton punching an American on a train - in the middle of bloody France no less - was eye opening!

He gravely shook the future Earl of Grantham's hand. "Viscount."

"Thank you Mr. Edwards."

"Glad to be of service, Viscount." He released the warm hand and nodded slightly. "Will the young sir need anything else?"

Robert shook his head. "Need a smoke."

Vance watched the future Earl walk back to first class and he chuckled softly. "Robert actually punched someone. Sod must have deserved it." He slipped back into the compartment.

"What are you smiling about?" Sally Ames asked as Vance sat down.

"Nothing, Miss Ames. Nothing at all," Vance said but he cherished the thought of Robert fighting. Perhaps there was more to Robert than he had geussed. "Just strikes that someday, Downton will be in good hands. More than meets the eye, Miss Ames. More than meets the eye."


	31. Chapter 31

Chapter 31 - The Coast

Vance and three porters sorted the luggage while Robert and his father stood on the balcony and smoked. "How is Mama?" Robert asked.

The train had made its way from Marseille and they had reached the hotel not an hour before. Mama was wilting at every step. She had protested she was fine but in the short taxi ride from the station she looked quite pale. "I'm fine, just tired." Sally had put her bed straight away upon arriving in their suite of rooms.

"She's lying down. Another headache." Richard said then examined his cigar critically. "She's been less than well lately. Nervous stomach."

Vance was suddenly at their elbow. "Milord?"

"Yes?"

"Your wife says that she will be resting for some time, and wishes that you and Downton would, ahem, vacate the suite."

"Alright. Tell her…" Richard waved the man away. "Guess it's the bar for us lad."

Robert squirmed for sitting in the smoking men's club downstairs was not what he wished to do.

"Problem?"

"No, papa. I think I'll take a walk."

"Well, Nice isn't quite like London, you know."

Robert smiled. "Or Paris." He sniffed the warm air. "Smell the sea."

Richard grunted and turned towards Vance. "We'll be out. About two hours, is it?"

His valet smiled. "I believe that would do it, Milord. Plenty of time to get ready for dinner. They eat quite late here."

Robert picked up his hat and walking stick. "I'll just go explore, if that's alright with you."

"Have at it." They rode the creaky lift down from the fifth floor, while Richard looked nervous.

"You don't like the lift."

"No. New-fangled." Richard huffed. "But with my aching knees, I suppose I can put up with it."

"We could have a lift installed at Downton."

"Your mother would have a stroke. We'd have to put in an electric plant, the works. No."

When his father spoke that way the matter was closed, at least at this time. Downton Abbey, unlike some of the finer homes, was still lit by gas and candles. Mama and papa were rather stick-in-the-mud about changing anything, although his father had seen to having indoor plumbing put in five years back.

The lift was operated by a small oily Frenchman, who held the gated folding door open for them when they stopped into reception. "Messieurs," he said and waved them through.

The reception area was large and high ceilinged, with brocaded wallpaper, dark floors and many windows through which a gentle breeze blew. The floor was crowded by guests, their servants, and porters, maneuvering around velvet couches and divans. Richard led Robert towards the men's salon. "Sure you won't join me?"

They stood in a milling crowd, hearing English, German, French and Italian. Nice was quite near the French border and a natural spot for holiday makers.

"I need exercise. That's all." Robert tipped his hat to his father. "Be back soon." He let his face fall after his father went for a drink. He was tired, so bloody tired of this journey; the incessant train swaying, insipid discussions, smelly loos of the carriages, indifferent food, and jostling from car to car. A porter held the massive front door and he emerged into the orange light of a fading sunset. Nice, France was on the Mediterranean Sea along a broad embayment stretching for three miles. Their hotel, La Metropole, faced a broad avenue that ran along the shoreline. It was just across a paved roadway where horse drawn carts, carriages, omnibuses, and taxis held sway. Robert crossed the road avoiding the usual piles of excrement, to the avenue. He stepped to the railing that edged the crushed stone walkway and gripped the filigreed cast iron.

Sea air hit his face and he knew Gibraltar was way over to his right and Italy off to his left. He could smell fish, salt air, flower blossoms, and that curious essence of the seaside. The beach was covered by flat stones about the size of your fist down to pebbles. The stones were rolled back and forth by the gentle waves in a melodic metronome. He watched some children playing in the waves watched carefully by nannies and maids, while palm trees waved overhead. He hadn't expected palms, and the warm air and the many people strolling about gave the whole a festival atmosphere.

The entire seafront was built up with large stuccoed buildings, all with red tile roofs standing four or five stories tall. It was different from any other spot Robert had been. Rome had it's own style, but Nice was different. Perhaps it was all the palm trees, right down to the ocean.

Robert was anxious and tired, worn out really, so he stood there with eyes closed and let the sensations wash over him. It was far warmer than he expected and he pulled at the collar of his shirt. Typical English wear was wool and cotton and he smelled the strong smell of himself, the effluvia of a day and a half on a train. He sighed.

"Problem sir?" asked a man's voice.

"No." He turned and gravely took in the speaker, an older gentleman with full whiskers, a ruddy face, and large body. "Hello. Sir, you are?"

The man smiled and offered his hand. "Sir Timothy Glanarock. Glasgow."

"Robert Crawley. Downton Abbey." They shook.

"Your father is Lord Grantham. We met last year at Westminster. It was…"

"Oh yes," Robert replied. "A good day that." It hadn't rained. "Where are you bound to?"

"Back from, lad. Heading home from Cairo."

"I see. Haven't been there."

"Marvelous place, Egypt. The city isn't much to speak of, but out in the desert where we went, pyramids, temples, all that. If it wasn't for the heat we'd have stayed longer."

"I'll have to put that on my travel list."

Glanarock grinned. "Good lad."

"Hot, you said."

"Oh yes. We'd planned on returning by sea, but my Mrs. hasn't been well."

"Sorry to hear that."

"No, no lad. It is fine," he lowered his voice. "My wife is expecting. She fell pregnant while we there and the sea voyage makes her dreadfully mal-de-mer. So we left ship in Naples. Been suffering our way up the coast on the Eyete trains." He sniffed. "Interesting country. Ruins, oranges, the weather is fair. Hotter than here - but the people are friendly."

"We're bound for Sorrento. My father's friend is getting married to an Italian girl."

"And that would be?"

"Duke Chambers. Phillips Brooks-Hill."

"Ah, yes. I knew both his father and uncle. How is he doing?"

"Engaged apparently."

Sir Timothy smiled. "Lad, you make it sound like it's a disease."

"Sorry." Robert wrinkled his nose. "Didn't mean to sound negative."

The man laughed. "Marriage, best thing I ever did." He checked his pocket-watch. "I was just going down the way to a little place we found years ago, near the flower market, part of the Old Town. "Care to join me sir?"

"I… really don't want a drink."

Timothy laughed. "Coffee, then. It's very good here. It's a quiet café, nothing more. There's a garden there, all roofed in vines. Come lad, I can see you are fatigued. It's just down the way - along the Promenade des Anglais, they call it. They paved it so all the visitors wouldn't get their shoes muddy."

Robert smiled. "Perhaps coffee would be good. Lead on MacDuff."

Sir Glanarock laughed. "Come then." He took Robert's elbow and turned him, just making him miss a tall dark-haired woman and her cousin who just then walked up to the rail.


End file.
